The Hart Break
by ChaseII
Summary: Sequel to Seventeen. Ryan's past meets his present, with potentially far reaching consequences.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: The Hart Break **

**Chapter 1 **

Author: ChaseII

**Story Rating:** T

**Disclaimer:** The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, _et. al_. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.

**A/N:** Unbeta'd -- all mistakes are mine!

AU. This story follows just after the epilogue for _Seventeen_, and involves the Harts, who were introduced in that story. Part 1 is set sometime just after "The Sleeping Beauty", and contains spoilers through that episode. Later parts will contain further spoilers.

**The Hart Break**

"We've got to tell him they called, honey."

Kirsten sighed. Sandy was right. She understood that.

But it didn't mean she had to like it. Who were these Harts, anyway?

She set her empty tea cup down smartly, shoving it to the back of the countertop with such force that the cup danced, rattling precariously on its saucer. Startled by her own actions, she turned to see Sandy's brows furrow as his eyes rose from the teacup to her face.

Damn. She needed to stay collected.

She wasn't necessarily wrong to worry, she told herself – she just couldn't appear irrational.

Kirsten aimed for 'practical' as she argued, "But Sandy, we don't know these people. In three and a half years, Ryan's never even mentioned them. Have you considered that there might be a reason for that?"

Eyebrows shooting up under his mane, Sandy countered, "There are a lot of things Ryan hasn't mentioned about his life before Newport – you know that as well as I do, sweetheart. I'm not sure we can read much of anything into his omissions – even when they're as glaring as this one seems to be."

Her lips flattened. She could hardly believe that she and Sandy seemed to have switched sides in their ongoing conflict – normally she was the one advocating Ryan's reconnection to his family and to his past, and Sandy was the one urging caution.

Wouldn't you know it? Now that she wanted Sandy to be staunchly protective, he was being open-minded instead.

As much as she loved her husband, there were times the man drove her mad.

She folded her arms across her chest, standing her ground, "I'm worried about Ryan – he's still working so hard just to cope with things. He doesn't need any more trauma right now."

Sandy cocked his head, hunching his shoulders as he made a face, "But Kirsten, think about it. Ryan's been through stuff no kid his age should ever have had to face. Having more people in his life who care about him -- who will support him while he's dealing with some horrific memories – could be just what he needs."

When he finished talking he continued staring at her, his eyes soft and imploring. She could feel him begging her to listen… to be objective.

"Humph," she snorted, averting her eyes.

She'd been the objective one too many times, arguing that what was best for Ryan involved resolving outstanding issues with his family. Almost always, her efforts had ended with Ryan being put in harm's way, and/or getting hurt.

Kirsten allowed a hint of her frustration to seep through, "Name one person from Chino who's ever come here and not left Ryan traumatized."

Sandy took her hand in his, coaxing her out of her crossed-arm stance and waiting for her to look at him. When she did, the understanding reflected in his eyes was reassuring, although not exactly what she was hoping for.

He held her gaze a moment before gathering her into his arms and resting his chin lightly against her hair.

"I hear what you're saying, Kirsten. Believe me. But you weren't on the telephone with Megan. I know we only spoke a few minutes, but I'm telling you – the woman said all the right things. You get a sense about people, sometimes. My sense was that the only person she was concerned about was Ryan – what he wanted. What was good for him. I liked that about her… I liked her. I think you would have, too."

Kirsten sighed, not really sure why Sandy's reassurances weren't working. She wanted what was best for Ryan – it was like her mantra. To that end, she'd tried liking Dawn, and Trey, and Theresa.

In the end, they'd all hurt him. She'd held out such hope that Dawn had changed, but the woman had turned her back on Ryan after the accident, more afraid she'd be pulled into a lawsuit than concerned about her son.

"I just don't know…" she answered truthfully, her voice trailing off uncertainly.

Sandy drew his head back, so that he could find her eyes once more.

"What do you say we talk to Ryan, see what his reaction to hearing from the Harts is? If he's skittish in any way, we do everything in our power to protect him from them," he coaxed.

She scanned his face, earnest eyes convincing her that he was serious.

So was she.

Mustering her best smile, she consented, "Okay, we talk to Ryan. But we don't force him to do anything he's not ready for. We take our cues from him."

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Kirsten stood back as Sandy tapped on the pool house door.

"Come in," came the disembodied voice. It sounded dispirited and resigned, as though any other response would have taken too much effort.

As Kirsten followed Sandy into the pool house, she let her eyes wander over both the teenager and the room for an update as to how Ryan was faring.

The teenager was sitting at his desk, pencil in hand, sketching something on an artist's pad.

He turned toward them, lifting his eyebrows expectantly.

The dullness in his voice was painful to hear, but she took heart in the fact that his shades were over half-way up, and that he wasn't cocooned under the covers of his bed, or sprawled miserably on top of it.

A further scan across the room confirmed that not only had the bed been made, but that all the surfaces were clean and uncluttered. Clothes were stacked neatly in the shelves, and there were no dishes in the sink or on the counters. A towel in the laundry basket was the only hint that someone actually occupied the room.

If this were Seth's room, she'd be worried sick, but the order was very Ryan-like. It was a good sign – some evidence that his considerable coping mechanisms might at least be keeping pace with his misery.

"Is something wrong?" Ryan laid the pencil he was sketching with on his desk, rising from his chair. He looked from Sandy's face to hers, his eyes troubled.

Sandy nodded toward the bed, "Why don't you sit down, kid? We need to talk."

Kirsten shot a look at her husband, wondering why he didn't put the teen at ease immediately. Honestly, as insightful as her husband generally was, there were times he was obtuse.

"Nothing's wrong, honey," she interjected, hoping that the sudden frown on Ryan's face would disappear.

The boy responded directly to Sandy, "If this is about Taylor being here overnight…"

Huh? Kirsten shot another look at Sandy, before turning back to Ryan. "What about Taylor?"

Ryan groaned, looking desperately at Sandy.

"Kirsten, I think we can save that topic for another discussion, okay?" Her husband's eyes widened, as though encouraging her to stay focused.

Damn it, she hated being left in the dark. She should know what was going on, particularly when it involved Girls Staying Overnight. Sandy knew how she felt about that.

The red flush creeping into Ryan's face as he sat down on the corner of the bed made her curiosity ramp into overdrive, but Sandy was right. Taylor was not why they were here.

Eyeing Sandy firmly, she sat down on the bed next to Ryan.

A small apologetic flick of his eyebrows the only acknowledgement of her admonishment, Sandy seated himself in the wicker chair across from the boy.

"So?" Ryan led, wiping his palms against his jeans. "Is something wrong?"

Kirsten waited for Sandy to respond, surprised when he said nothing. A quick glance at his face told her they'd had a miscue – that a contrite Sandy was waiting for her to speak.

Ryan fidgeted, apparently misinterpreting their silence.

"Did Seth tell you about the insomnia thing? 'Cause that's over with," he offered, apprehension evident in his voice.

"Insomnia?" Sandy's eyebrows shot up. "You weren't sleeping? When was this? Why didn't you tell us?"

Reeling from a second revelation in as many minutes, Kirsten laid her hand on the boy's arm, feeling his body tense at her touch. She closed her eyes for an instant, troubled.

It wasn't like Ryan had ever really come to them with his problems, but shouldn't they at least be aware of something like insomnia? What did that say about how their family was operating right now?

And what did it say that Ryan tensed when she touched him? Were they really back to that?

Maybe that's what she really feared about this latest bombshell – that their relationship with Ryan was too fragile right now to withstand an outside challenge. That after all that had happened these last few months, they still needed to mend their own familial bonds.

They had a lot to make up for.

_She_ had a lot to make up for.

Like the fact she'd never talked with Ryan, after what she'd said to him at her intervention. Or the fact she'd never opened up with him after her stint in rehab, or taken him to any of her meetings, or properly thanked him for his support.

She'd wanted to, but she'd put off the conversations, nervous at first that she'd make him uncomfortable, or say something wrong, and later embarrassed that she'd waited far too long.

As much as she hated it, she'd never grown entirely comfortable with Ryan. While she told others she loved him 'as a son', she'd never said the words to him.

After all this time, there was still a distance – Ryan seemed always one rung out of reach.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she felt his arm move under her hand.

The teenager shrugged and ducked his head. When he spoke, he was still addressing Sandy.

"I swear, it wasn't a big deal. I would have told you if the sleep – that is, I mean the not sleeping – thing got to be something I couldn't handle, okay?"

"No, it's not okay," Kirsten answered, cutting off whatever reply Sandy might have given. She braced herself for Ryan's startled glance.

Keeping eye contact when it came, she explained, "Ryan, we need to know when you're having problems. We can help – we want to help you. I want you to really understand that."

The boy bit his lip, as he nodded slowly, "Yeah, no, I'm sorry. I get that, but I just needed to work through some stuff, okay? Honestly, most of the time there isn't anything anyone can do. Look, I'll come to you if I can't manage on my own, I promise."

Kirsten let out her breath, unsure how to respond. Thankfully, Sandy didn't seem to like the boy's answer anymore than she did.

He interceded, chiding gently, "That's a start, kid, but don't think we're gonna let you off the hook that easily."

Ryan's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Sandy moved in his chair, leaning toward Ryan, "But we can have that discussion later, too. That's not why we're here right now."

Rolling his eyes at Sandy, Ryan muttered, "So, you guys just wanna move in here? 'Cause it sounds like I'm in for a bunch of lectures."

Kirsten moved her hand to rest on his back, pleased that at least there was no flinch this time she touched him. He glanced sideways at her, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Kirsten soothed, "Not lectures. Discussions."

His expression made it clear he didn't see a lot of distinction.

"As for us moving into the pool house? I think you're safe, sweetie. Sandy and I aren't nearly neat enough to be your tenants."

She looked across at him, offering an encouraging smile.

This time he did allow one corner of his mouth to turn up, "I'd need a big deposit."

Sandy's dimples appeared as he snorted, but he let Kirsten keep the lead.

"You don't know the half of it, honey. You'd need a maid!" Kirsten grinned, nodding her head accusingly at Sandy.

Ryan lips twitched, but he bit off the smile that threatened to appear.

"So, what say we continue the Taylor and insomnia discussions inside the house? Later?" she asked.

The boy grimaced lopsidedly across at her, sighing in resignation.

Sandy cleared his throat, the sound reminding Kirsten of their real mission. She nodded, letting him take the helm of the conversation.

Sandy looked at Ryan, "What we actually came out here to talk to you about is a telephone call that came in for you, Ryan. From someone who says she knew you from Chino."

"She?" Ryan's eyes reflected apprehension. He picked at a fleck of lint on his t-shirt. "Not Theresa?"

"A woman. A Megan Hart." Sandy's voice was even, but his eyes were riveted on Ryan's face.

Kirsten watched as Ryan froze, his hand suspended in space. The boy blinked several times, but neither moved nor spoke.

"Ryan?" Sandy pressed.

As though he'd been released from 'pause', Ryan caught a sharp breath, and swallowed. "Mrs. Hart? Really? She called?"

Kirsten nodded, "So you know her?"

His head dropped as he clenched his hands together and rested his forehead on his knuckles. He nodded, but didn't speak.

"Kid? Are you okay?"

Sandy scooted out to the edge of his chair, reaching across to lay a hand on Ryan's knee.

The boy look up at him, his eyes teaming with questions. He only gave voice to one, "Where is she?"

Sandy kept his voice neutral as he answered, "Here. That is, in L.A. She and her husband. They've apparently been looking for you for a while."

Kirsten's heart broke a little as she watched Ryan wind his arms around his middle. She wondered what he was protecting himself against. The Harts, or yet another heartbreak?

"Who are they, Ryan?" she asked gently.

His eyes were deep blue pools as he offered very softly, "Once… they were people who believed in me."

"Once?" she echoed, her heart lurching a little at his choice of words.

He didn't explain, responding instead with a few more facts, "Mrs. Hart is a librarian – or was a librarian, I guess. I first met her when I was seven – when she read to us at the library…" His voice trailed off, as he closed his eyes.

"She told me that," Sandy nodded. "She also said her husband was an architect."

Ryan smiled a little, "Yeah – he is. When I knew him, he was really into baseball, too. And soccer. Football. Actually, all my sports."

Kirsten felt her heart skip a beat.

She glanced at the books on Ryan's shelves. She'd always been impressed with the boy's love for reading, according much of his remarkable ability to adapt to new surroundings with the insight and knowledge gleaned from time well-spent with books.

Exactly what role had the Harts played in Ryan's life? And what role did they hope to play going forward?

What might Ryan hope for?

And why was she suddenly having trouble getting her breath?

"Honey? Do you want to talk with her? With them?" She shifted her position so that she was angled toward him.

"I thought… I didn't think…" he stopped, closing his eyes and sucking on his lower lip. When he opened his eyes, they were shimmering.

"They really want to talk to me? You're sure?" The muscles in his jaw were strained as he waited for an answer.

Sandy squeezed the boy's knee, his voice soothing, "Very much so, kid."

The boy stared at Sandy for a few seconds, the cords in his face still strained as he fought for self-control.

Kirsten tried to smile as she comforted, "So, I take it that's a 'yes'?"

Ryan shook his head, turning to her as he unwound his arms, swiping his fingers across his face.

"Yeah. I'd like that." The words were squeezed out, fading a little at the end.

Kirsten recognized an uneasy mixture of longing, anxiety, and wonder on his face and in his eyes.

"Then, we'll make it happen."

Before Ryan could respond, Sandy clarified, "Of course we will, kid. Just, until we get to know them, we want to be part of any contact. They're okay with that stipulation. It's not because we don't trust you, Ryan. It's because we want to protect you."

Kirsten watched the teenager carefully, pleased to see him nod.

"I get that."

Sandy smiled, and settled back in his chair. "Good."

Ryan tilted his head. "But Sandy?"

"Yeah?"

"I trust them."

She almost gasped, before glancing quickly across at Sandy. Her husband's smile was frozen on his face.

Fortunately, their stunned silence went unnoticed. Ryan was elsewhere – completely lost in thought.

The tiny upward movements of his lips and softening of his eyes spoke volumes. When at last he closed his eyes and genuinely smiled, Kirsten felt her own eyes stinging.

Her 'like a son' seemed further away than ever at this moment.

She slid an arm around Ryan's waist, unable to stop herself.

All she managed to do was startle him.

He sucked in his breath sharply, spinning his head toward her as he jumped, dislodging her arm.

His face flushed when he realized what he'd done, "I'm sorry – I guess I zoned out for a minute."

She smiled, recovering as gracefully as she could. She laid her hand gently on his back, rubbing small circles, "I'm the one who's sorry – I just want you to know I'm here – that we're both here for you."

"I know. And I appreciate that."

Of course he did. He always appreciated what they did for him.

As much as that meant, it wasn't what she wanted from the teenager.

Ryan looked hopefully at Sandy, "Can I – we – call them now? Please?"

She dropped her hand down to the bed, resisting the urge to wind her arms around her own midsection. What was wrong with her, anyway? Isn't this what she'd always wanted for Ryan? A connection to someone important from his past?

She tried her best to smile, only to realize Ryan wasn't paying any attention to her at all. His eyes were glued to Sandy's face.

Sandy caught her eye, giving her as much comfort as he could before he turned to answer Ryan. "I'm sure Megan would like that. Let's go over into the kitchen to make the call, okay?"

----------------

Kirsten poured hot water over an infuser of loose green tea as Sandy dialed the number Megan had given him.

She wondered what was in store for their family – what events this call might set in motion.

Maybe the Harts simply wanted to find out how Ryan was doing. Maybe they would be satisfied with seeing him, ensuring that he was safe. That he was part of a loving family.

Maybe giving them those assurances was all he wanted, too.

Only that's not what Ryan's expression was telling her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him look this eager. The last time she'd seen his eyes shine quite like they were shining now.

As good as it was to see Ryan excited about anything, it hurt a little that he was so anxious to speak with strangers when he still barely spoke with them. Except… the Harts weren't strangers to Ryan, were they?

Kirsten hid a frown. God help her – she was actually jealous, and more than a little threatened by people she'd never met.

_This isn't a competition_, she told herself firmly.

Rinsing out the teacup she'd been using earlier, she could practically feel her pulse quicken as she heard the phone ringing over the speaker.

She froze for an instant when she heard someone pick up.

A woman's voice poured into their kitchen – warm and rich, brimming with anticipation.

"Hello? This is Megan..."

Ryan blinked for a second, as though he didn't quite believe his ears.

"Hello?" the woman repeated.

Sandy placed a hand on Ryan's shoulder, raising his eyebrows and nodding toward the phone.

"Mrs. Hart?" Ryan responded softly.

Kirsten watched the teenager's face as Megan Hart's excited reaction echoed across the separating miles.

"Oh my God! Ryan? Ryan! Is it really you?"

His smile virtually lit the kitchen, while Kirsten clutched her teacup tightly in her hands to keep from shaking.

She stood less than three feet from this boy who was 'like her son', but she was far too far away.

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_tbc_

_Reviews greatly appreciated! Many thanks for your time -- hope you enjoy our journey._


	2. Chapter Two

**Title: The Hart Break **

**Chapter: Two **

Author: ChaseII

**Disclaimer:** The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, _et. al_. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.

**A/N:** Many thanks to **Beachtree** for reviewing this chapter!

**Summary:**_ AU __Sequel to "Seventeen". Ryan's past meets his present, with potentially far-reaching consequences._

_This story follows just after the epilogue for Seventeen, and involves the Harts, who were introduced in that story. Chapter Two is set sometime just after "The Sleeping Beauty", and contains spoilers through that episode. Later parts will contain further spoilers._

**The Hart Break – Chapter Two**

Ryan frowned into the telephone, grabbing a bottle of juice from his mini-fridge as he listened to near-desperation crackling in his ear. His manager's anxiety was almost as irritating as it was pathetic. Honestly, if the guy's biggest problem was being three people short on the day shift? The dude needed some serious perspective.

Cradling the receiver between his shoulder and his ear while he twisted the metal cap off the juice, he could almost hear the spittle spewing from Luis's lips as the guy railed about two of the no-shows having hang-overs. He felt like telling the dude he should stop hiring his drinking buddies, but held his tongue.

The fact was, Luis had been good to him – giving him plenty of extra hours when he'd needed to fill his days and nights with something approaching normal – and giving him time off on those rare occasions when he'd actually asked the guy for an hour or an afternoon to handle the odd obligation or commitment he couldn't cancel or reschedule.

He owed the guy – he understood that, and didn't resent the debt. He'd given his time without complaint routinely, but not tonight.

Interrupting his manager's blathering, he cut to the chase, "Yeah, okay, Luis, but I can only work the day shift. I've got something this evening that I can't miss."

_Won't miss_, he told himself as he half-listened to relieved promises and an embarrassingly over-gushed 'thanks'

Ryan set the phone back on its base and took a long drink of juice, immediately rushing to the sink to spit the liquid out. He looked at the bottle, realizing he'd picked up a health food potion instead of OJ. Same color, same consistency – whole different – and thoroughly repulsive – flavor.

Taylor

He shook his head, wondering what other surprises Taylor might have left lurking around the pool house. The girl was a little scary. Actually, bordering on frightening sometimes. But she was also all kinds of smart and spirited, not to mention gorgeous and freaking hot. Involuntarily he raised his fingers to his lips, the memory of her warm mouth pressed against his own disturbing in a way he'd never anticipated.

He shook his head, trying to clear the memory. Today was already approaching overload in terms of what he felt capable of dealing with, given that the Harts would be here this evening.

It still felt like a dream – the thought of seeing them again after all this time. The telephone call had been awkward. As much as he'd wanted to talk to Megan and Sam, he'd found it impossible to say the things he wanted to say over the phone.

Thankfully, Sandy had recognized his discomfort immediately, jumping in early to suggest meeting in person might be to everyone's benefit. Megan must have reached the same conclusion, because she'd laughed a little self-consciously, saying she'd been about to suggest the same thing. The Cohens and the Harts had settled on tonight's plans while he'd kept quiet, simply hoping that he wasn't going to wake up and find that this was all some kind of dream.

He couldn't remember looking so forward to anything in ages, but he kept reminding himself that things had changed. He wasn't the same kid the Harts had taken in time and time again back in Chino.

Would they still feel the same about him, with all of his new baggage? How much would his mistakes taint their perception of who he was, or who he could someday be?

They'd be pleased that he'd graduated from a top-notch high school – he knew that. They'd also be pleased – and maybe not even as shocked as he'd been – to hear that he had a deferred admission to Berkley in hand. They'd always had more faith in his abilities than he'd had.

But would his achievements balance the fact that he'd also followed in the Atwood mold, amassing his own record (actual and dropped charges) to proudly complement his father's and his brother's?

Good question, he thought. One of many…

But any such questions were for tonight – right now, he had to get moving. He changed into plain dark pants and a black t-shirt, stopping for a second as he pulled the t-shirt over his head.

What the fuck was he thinking?

He slid the shirt into place, frowning as he stared at the phone.

He was gathering his keys from his nightstand when he heard a tap at his door.

"It's open," he called, surprised when he turned to see Kirsten enter. She looked a little stiff – like she wasn't sure she belonged inside her own pool house. She almost always looked that way when she crossed his threshold – whenever she circled anywhere near his space.

He hated thinking he made her feel that way, but he didn't know how to change her feelings… or his own. It wasn't like he was ever completely relaxed around her, either, no matter how much he wished things could be different between them.

"I was hoping we could talk," she said, her voice sounding hesitant. She smiled – the soft, beautiful smile that always made him want to please her, just so he'd see her smile like that again.

He stifled a groan, cursing himself for letting Luis's earlier desperation override his common sense. Kirsten's hopeful smile made him look away.

He'd already begun his dance with guilt, telling himself he was being all kinds of thoughtless for agreeing to work today.

After all, the Cohens had graciously extended their invitation because of him…solely because he wanted to see people he'd never even mentioned to them.

And what was he doing to thank the Cohens for their understanding and their generosity? He was skipping out on them when he should be staying home to help with whatever preparations they would have to make to get ready for his guests.

He glanced back toward where Kirsten was standing, noting that she was twisting her rings. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, as though she couldn't find a comfortable position.

Great. Now he felt even worse .

After all, it wasn't like she came to the pool house that often, wanting to talk. And while he was normally relieved to avoid 'talking', he'd make himself talk to her if that's what she really wanted. Anything to please her.

He forced himself to meet her eyes, "Uh, I'm sorry, but Luis called – they're really short-handed today at PG – and I said I'd work the day shift."

The smile she wore shifted a little, dimming from hopeful to resigned.

He felt his stomach twist, as though her disappointment had filtered through his skin and settled there.

Ryan shifted his own weight, more guilt settling on his shoulders. He ducked his head, before looking back up at her apologetically.

"Look, if you'd like, I'll call Luis back – I should have checked with you before I agreed, anyway. I should help here. I'm sorry."

She cocked her head as her eyebrows furrowed for an instant. "No, don't worry, honey – it's okay. Sandy and I have dinner under control – there's nothing you need to do but show up," she assured him, her voice filled with understanding.

Kirsten was always understanding, even when she probably shouldn't be. He appreciated her understanding and her kindness – she'd given him far more of each than he'd ever expected. More than he'd ever gotten from his own mother.

He twisted his keys inside one hand, "What about…whatever you wanted to talk about? You're sure it can wait?"

She nodded, "I'm sure."

Her voice was comforting, but her eyes still spoke of disappointment.

"Sorry," he said again, tempted to call Luis anyway. He'd rather disappoint his manager than Kirsten.

As though she read his mind, Kirsten chided gently, "Don't even think about changing your mind! We'll talk later – trust me, Ryan, it's fine."

"You're really sure?"

She nodded, her head tilted to the side again, her voice now resolute, "Absolutely. Working today will help the hours pass for you, and maybe it'll give Sandy and me a little time alone with Megan and Sam. I'd actually like that. Quite a lot."

Kirsten backed a half-step toward the door, the vein on her forehead more pronounced than usual. She smiled fleetingly, and worried with her rings as she turned away from him.

Ryan watched her move, struck by her expression and her last words. Could she possibly be nervous about meeting the Harts? Was that even possible?

Then again, these were people from _his_ past. To date, the Chino track record with the Cohens hadn't been exactly stellar.

He darted ahead of Kirsten, opening the door for her to pass through. As she slid past, he offered the best assurance he could think of, "They're not like my family, you know."

"How do you mean?" She asked as they crossed the patio, sounding like she'd been caught off-guard by his remark.

He bit his lip, walking with her to the kitchen door before answering. "I mean, they're nice. Normal. They're not going to cause trouble, or embarrass you, or anything."

She opened the door, turning to face Ryan as she did, "I'm sure they're lovely, Ryan."

"They are," he assured her.

When she just blinked at him, he added, "They're really special people, I promise."

She nodded quickly, "I know they must be, if they're special to you."

He saw her move and froze, spellbound as one of her hands floated toward his face. He lowered his eyes, afraid that she might see his sudden childish longing.

Averting his eyes made it easier to hide the ache he felt when her hand veered away, brushing awkwardly through her hair instead.

Small wonder, he thought, admonishing himself for wanting... more.

The last time she'd reached out to him, he'd literally jumped away from her. To top that off, he'd just rebuffed a rare request to talk.

He raised his eyes and flicked his eyebrows upward, trying to keep his voice from betraying him. "Gotta' get moving."

She shoved her hands into her back pockets, safely out of play, but she tilted her head and gave him her soft, heartwarming smile.

The smile was classic Kirsten – beautiful and kind.

Shoving aside any lingering childish need, he smiled back.

She gave him what she gave best, and it was far more than enough.

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_tbc_

_**A/N: Reviews greatly appreciated! Many thanks for your time...**_


	3. Chapter Three

**Title: The Hart Break **

**Chapter: Three**

Author: ChaseII

**Story Rating:** PG-13(?) (minor language)

**Disclaimer:** The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, _et. al_. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.

**A/N:** Many thanks to **Beachtree** for reviewing this chapter!

**Summary:**_ AU __Sequel to "Seventeen". Ryan's past meets his present, with potentially far-reaching consequences._

_This story follows just after the epilogue for Seventeen, and involves the Harts, who were introduced in that story. Chapter Two is set sometime just after "The Sleeping Beauty", and contains spoilers through that episode. Later parts will contain further spoilers._

**The Hart Break – Chapter Three**

The Pacific Coast Highway takes my breath away as it skirts the California shoreline. The sun is already dipping toward the sea as we drive toward Newport, the shortened daylight hours the only hint that it's nearly winter in this gold-washed land. I lean against the passenger window, feeling the kiss of sunrays against my face.

The highway makes a slight jag, and suddenly the Pacific is almost touchable, stretching like pulsing liquid sapphire beside us. I think of Ryan, wondering if he passed this way when he first came to Newport. Did he notice the sun glinting on the water? Did he pay attention to the dappled shadows spilling across the windshield as towering palms splinter light into a thousand fragmented patterns?

What would he have been thinking as he sat in the passenger seat, watching a stranger driving? Going to a home he'd never seen? Meeting a family he hadn't known?

And suddenly all I can think of it how much I wish that we could change time. That we'd been here when he needed us. That he'd never gone to Newport, but had come home with Sam and me. It's an old, tattered, worn-out wish, but I can't help myself. I just keep on wishing.

I look across at Sam, who is softly singing along to "Faithfully" by Journey as he drives, and I smile. His musical tastes stalled out in the 80's, I think, but that's okay. His vintage music suits us.

He notices me watching him, and his eyes sparkle. He stops singing, and smiles, "This is it, babe." He points to a road sign as he says, "Newport Beach."

I can feel my heart creeping up into my throat, and I swallow to keep it in place.

Sam glances at me as he turns inland, following Sandy's directions. He checks one last time with me, "Do we need anything? Do we have everything?"

For the third time today I survey the backseat, checking to see that we've brought the things I wanted to bring. We have some of our pictures from Guyana, Naomi's present for Ryan, our gift for the Cohens, and my now enormous box. We've also got our suitcases stored in the trunk, and reservations at a local motel.

I turn back to Sam, "Nothing got away since last time I checked."

Sam chuckles, "Good to hear there aren't any leaks in the time/space continuuim."

Too bad, I think, as my weathered wish shows another fray.

-------------

I whistle softly as Sam and I pull past the guard gate leading into the Cohens' community.

"We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."

Grinning, Sam nods, "You got that straight, Dorothy! I'm guessing the yellow bricks in this Oz would be 24 carat."

"And the ruby slippers would be Jimmy Choos!" I laugh, grateful that Sam's extending the metaphor. Anything to keep my nerves in check. Sam's hand covers mine and he throws an appraising glance in my direction. His expression tells me I'm not hiding my anxiety as well as I'd hoped.

"If you say so," he replies, before turning his head toward me and smiling reassuringly.

"Remember, Meg – there's no place like home."

I smile back at him, thinking of some of the places we've called home over the years. Our tiny bungalow in Guyana, Our lovingly restored foursquare in Chino, our tiny Victorian cottage in Chicago, our hand-crafted log cabin in Teays Valley, West Virginia…

Our next home won't be big, or showy, or expensive, either. Our needs are simple. It must be warm and welcoming, filled with books and friends' voices and Sam's projects. It must be located where Sam and I can make a difference. And it must have room for Ryan.

I look out the window at the neighborhood we're passing through, and think that the hybrid we're driving seems as out of place as we do. The whole way up the hill to the Cohen home, all I see are high powered sports cars, luxury sedans and SUVs.

Sam checks the address one last time before steering up a final incline.

"Ready, babe?" he asks as he puts the vehicle in park and sets the emergency brake.

Ready? How can I answer that question? I've been ready for the last three and a half years. But now that I'm here? I feel so shaky I'm not even sure I can stand up.

It still seems like I'm dreaming.

Ryan and I only managed to speak in fits and starts this morning, either falling over each other's words or scrambling to fill the pregnant pauses.

I knew within the first minute that the telephone wasn't nearly immediate enough – in truth, I'd known it wouldn't be before we'd said a single word. I need to see Ryan in person – talking to him without seeing him means missing entirely too much of what he says – both content and texture.

His face – his eyes – they've always been my windows to what he's really thinking. What he's feeling. What he won't… or can't … say.

In the end, we only talked long enough to say awkward but heartfelt 'hellos' and then make arrangements to meet for dinner at the Cohens' home.

_Ryan's_ home, I remind myself.

This is really Ryan's home. It's almost too much for me to take in.

I stare wide-eyed at the sprawling stucco structure, standing proudly at the summit of this community filled with mini-mansions. Our years in Chino seem a world away, far too ordinary to compete with this extravagance of wealth and privilege.

I flip down my visor, assessing the status of my make-up. My sigh is heavy as I turn to Sam.

"Meg – you look gorgeous." His smile is sincere, but what does he know?

He can't begin to understand what it means that my black silk slacks and my light blue sweater set are off the rack and bear no designer labels, or that my shoes are soft, sensible, inexpensive flats, and not some Manolo Blahnik heels.

Dammit!

Why am I letting this community – these people – get to me before I've even met them? I've never worried about things like wardrobe or make-up before – it's not who I am or what I'm about.

Normally, I'm pretty secure about my appearance – yeah, maybe I've always been a lot more girl-next-door and a lot less fashion-model chic, but the casual, healthy look I'm comfortable with has always worked for me.

So why isn't it working now?

Because I'm completely out of my element? Uneasy in a world I've read about but never experienced?

And if I feel so uneasy, how must Ryan have felt, who would have arrived in the midst of all this wealth with almost nothing? How had it played on his inherent insecurities? How had he managed to adapt? How much might he have changed?

Will I stand out as a misfit in his new environment? Will I embarrass him?

_Dammit, dammit, dammit! Get hold of yourself, Megan!_

I try to pull myself together, and focus on the Cohens, but that only breeds new insecurities. I imagine that Kirsten Cohen is tall, thin, blonde, and gorgeous. The Newport vision of the perfect mother.

In contrast, the voice inside my head niggles that Ryan will take one look at me and realize I'm just a frumpy librarian. Well, maybe not exactly frumpy, but certainly ordinary, compared to the plastic-perfection he must be used to now. And there it is – I'm being catty about women I don't even know. That's just wrong on a multitude of levels!

I feel Sam's hand touch my face, his thumb guiding my chin toward him. "He's not going to pay any attention to what we're wearing, Megan."

He's right. I know he's right, but I'm still uneasy. I roll my eyes like a stubborn child, "I bet Kirsten will."

"Could be worse."

Drawing my head back, I blink. "How so?"

"You could be one of these fashionistas wearing four inch heels. Looks like they'd hurt your feet." Sam arches an eyebrow.

"Yeah, but being this rich might make up for it…" My inner child is still firmly in charge of my responses.

Sam chuckles as he opens the door and swings his legs outside the car, "Maybe you should ask Kirsten Cohen about that."

"You think I won't?" I challenge, as my old-school husband circles around our Prius, opening my door.

Sam holds out a hand to me. "Are you kidding? I'm counting on it."

With his assistance, I manage to stand up, a little relieved when my legs actually seem willing to support my weight. Sam digs into the back seat, retrieving the hand-crafted scrapbook we've carried from Guyana, filled with copies of photographs, newspaper clippings, report cards, drawings, playbills, and several cheeky notes from Ryan, together with our own notations, favorite Ryan stories, and some much-loved random reminisces.

We've brought another scrapbook to give Ryan that's more complete – that's rounded out with personal moments and memories that he'll understand without explanation. He can share any or all of it with the Cohens if he wishes, but these moments belong to him and to us, and he gets to make the call.

Sam reads my thoughts, "First things first, Megan." He shifts his hold on our gift for the Cohens so that its weight rests in one arm, its hand-dyed cloth ribbon ruffling a little in the breeze.

I nod, "Guess my box would be a little overkill right now, huh?"

"Probably ought to get past introductions before we cart a moving box into their house."

I laugh nervously, wondering if we should have brought wine or chocolate or candles or anything not homemade.

I try hiding my childish apprehension by bumping playfully into Sam as we walk together toward the door, "So where did you learn the term 'fashionista', anyway?"

He chuckles, "I watch 'Ugly Betty'."

"For the models, right?" I tease, looping my arm through his and smiling when he grins across at me disarmingly.

"I'm taking the fifth."

-------------

Kirsten isn't quite what I expected. That is, she _is_ gorgeous, tall, thin, and obviously rich. But she is also gracious, and kind, and reserved. Her clothes are expensive but understated, and she wears little kitten heels that look both comfortable and elegant.

Her hair is long and layered beautifully, with blonde on blonde highlights and deep champagne lowlights. She has soft blue eyes, and a lovely smile that appears often as she greets us and makes us feel welcome in her home.

Sandy's appearance is even further removed from how I had pictured him. His golf-shirt and khaki slacks are very much like Sam's – the classic 'guy uniform'. Sam even owns a royal blue shirt almost identical to the one Sandy has on tonight – although Sam's came as a souvenir from a charity tournament hosted by the prestigious Newport Golf Club a few years ago, while I assume Sandy is a member.

No, it isn't the man's clothes that are so at odds with how I've pictured Sandy Cohen. It has more to do with his overall appearance.

He has a mane of thick black hair that spills into his eyes, making him seem more than a little disheveled, which runs counter to my impression of the man over the phone. Then, he'd sounded like a 'suit', albeit one from New York rather than the west coast. Importantly, a 'suit' who obviously cared about Ryan.

In person, he seems anything but formal. His smile is quick, and the dimples that mark his face are charming. He is nothing if not talkative – as verbal as his wife is reserved. I find myself wondering how Ryan handles Sandy's multitude of words – guessing that he probably likes that this man is so verbose – so he won't have to be.

But it's Sandy's eyebrows that nearly undo me – they are so prominent I have to continually coach myself to disregard them. Honestly, the thick black brows are more than merely distracting – they're mesmerizing.

I constantly find myself watching them raise, lower, arch, waggle, furrow, knit, and settle back into place as the man speaks.

I'm glad that Sam doesn't seem to suffer from the same hypnotic fascination that I do, because there are times when the man actually stops talking, and I'm pretty sure one of us ought to be able to respond to whatever it is he's said on those occasions.

"I know what you mean," Sam is saying, as Sandy sets the scrapbook aside with care.

I shake my head, tearing my eyes away from Sandy's face, hoping against hope he thinks I've been raptly attentive instead of simply rude. I have only the vaguest notion of what the guy has been talking about, but I'm pretty sure I can recall the eyebrow choreography without a hitch.

Kirsten brings fresh ice tea out onto the patio where the rest of us are still seated despite the growing darkness, and Sam rises from his chair, Sandy following suit just a beat behind him. In the soft glow of the Cohens' outdoor lighting, I can see Kirsten's eyes brighten just a little – she must like old-fashioned manners, too.

"Please, be seated – there's no need for formality among us, okay?"

Sandy nods as he sits down, "You're the boss, sweetheart." He looks across at Sam.

"Casual's good," Sam agrees affably, settling into his chair. He catches my eye and winks, letting me know he's feeling comfortable with these people.

Kirsten speaks again, "I just got another call from Ryan. He said he should be home in about an hour. He asked me to apologize again that he wasn't here when you arrived."

I take the glass she hands me, smiling as I answer, "Believe me, Kirsten, Ryan responding to the restaurant's plea for him to come in? Sounds like how he'd help me out when we were in a crunch at the library – even if it was the last thing he probably really wanted to do. He told me early on that he was a 'good helper', and he wasn't just saying that. That restaurant? They're lucky to have him there."

Our hostess smiles back as she takes her seat, "They really are. Still, I know he'd rather be here – I'm sure that he'll be home as soon as he possibly can."

I lean forward, fingering the cool, condensation-laden side of my glass, "Actually, as much as I want to see Ryan, I'm kind of glad we have a chance to talk. Just the four of us."

To my surprise, Kirsten sighs audibly, nodding, "Oh, me, too. I thought about suggesting it – that we get together first – but then I thought it might seem… like I was putting obstacles in your way, if that makes sense."

Sandy rests an arm across the back of his wife's chair, "We realize we're already asking a lot – that we be here with Ryan when you see him. It's just, he's been through so much recently, and we worry about him."

"Again, Sandy, we understand," Sam replies, his hand covering my free one. "We don't want to do anything that upsets Ryan – that's in any way detrimental to his welfare. He's simply too important to us." Sam looks around the table, pausing for a second before adding "To _all_ of us."

Squeezing a lemon wedge into my glass, I gather my thoughts and turn to Kirsten. "I appreciate everything you've both explained about the accident, and its aftermath. That Ryan would feel responsible for what happened? It doesn't surprise me – when we lived in Chino, you can't imagine how often I watched him accept responsibility for things that weren't his fault."

Kirsten's eyes drop, as she seems to struggle a little with a response.

Sandy offers softly, "I think maybe we could."

I scan his face, recognizing the significance of his words. I know how hard it is to get past Ryan's self-doubt, "It hurts to think of him out there by himself for so long, thinking he was trouble. That the people who love him would be better off if he were gone."

Kirsten looks up, "He couldn't be more wrong."

My heart goes out to her – this woman who has taken on the role I'd give anything to play.

"I think of you visiting him in that place – it must have been dreadful to see him living in the hole you've described." I look supportively at Kirsten, trying to imagine the horror the woman must have felt.

Kirsten hesitates, glancing at her husband.

The man frowns as though remembering, "Ryan wasn't exactly ready for a lot visitors. He didn't want Kirsten anywhere near the bar. If you saw it – the place he was living – you'd understand why he wanted her to steer clear – it was awfully rough."

My eyes fly to Kirsten's face as I try to process what Sandy just said. She didn't go see him? Not even once? According to the Cohens, Ryan lived in that wretched place from August through most of November. Four months. I just can't wrap my head around all that time passing, knowing where he was, and not going to see him.

I must be missing something, I think desperately, when I realize I'm being an idiot.

"So you'd see him at a restaurant, or maybe a library? Somewhere he'd agree to meet?" I just need to know she didn't leave him out there, lost and all alone.

Kirsten blinks, shaking her head. "I wanted to," she says softly, "…but he wasn't ready – so I sent care packages and notes, and spoke to him on the telephone when he'd let me through."

I feel Sam's arm circle my waste, insistent. I can almost hear his thoughts.

_Don't mess this up… don't get us thrown out of the Cohen home before Ryan even gets here._

"I see," I finally say, although I truly don't. I can't imagine the hell-hole I wouldn't go to if it meant seeing Ryan.

Neither Cohen says a word as a tautness spreads across the table, blanketing us all in uneasy silence.

Sam risks speaking, his confession cutting through the tension, "We've been worried that Ryan thinks we don't want him in our lives anymore. That the reason he never tried to contact us is because he screwed up and then assumed he wasn't worthy…"

Sandy's lips scrunch up at the corners as he shakes his head, "Sounds like Ryan, I'm afraid. He's far harder on himself than he should be… I've watched him beat himself up over things that we try to tell him aren't his fault. But you know him – he's got this internal moral compass that he follows, and while he's more than willing to forgive others when they make mistakes, he has a devil of a time forgiving himself."

Sam grimaces, "Leopard. Spots. I guess. We'd always hoped that if he were ever out of Dawn's clutches – somewhere where he felt safe – he'd learn to go easier on himself. That maybe he could just be a kid."

"We hoped so, too," Sandy acknowledges, pausing for a second before continuing. "And really, sometimes he has acted like a normal teenager – dating, taking part in school and social functions, hanging out with his friends… there've been good times. It's just that he's had so many challenges over the last three years, every time things seemed really settled, something would come along to rip up the landscape and suddenly we'd all be scrambling again."

I nod reflectively – I'd seen the same cycles for years. I'm glad that the Cohens don't seem daunted – that Sandy seems at peace with sometimes having to scramble. I get the feeling that this man knows that Ryan's worth the effort.

They've been here all the years when we were gone – that counts huge in my book. My gratitude outweighs my doubt, and I speak, "I guess you know all about the environment he grew up in. He always astounded me with his resilience, despite everything Dawn put him through. But this latest tragedy? Having someone he cared for die in his arms? I'm just thankful he's in one piece, and that this… 'Volchok'… is locked away in prison. I'm so glad Ryan had you for support."

Kirsten shoots a pointed look at her husband, who glances across at the scrapbook before he replies, "To be honest, we don't know as much about Ryan's past as we'd like to. He's always been reluctant to open up about what his life was like before he came to live with us, and we've never really pressed him. We always hoped he'd come to us when he was ready to talk."

I frown before catching myself. I know how reticent Ryan can be – how much he keeps hidden. Still – the Cohens have had him with them for more than three years. I can't help but wonder why they haven't pressed for information in all this time? Because they're afraid of pushing him away, or because they didn't want to hear his answers? Would his past be too ugly to parade inside these privileged walls?

My thoughts are interrupted by a blur of movement and the sound of the kitchen door opening.

My heartbeat races, only slowing when I realize the boy coming through the kitchen door isn't who I'm here to see.

"Hey! What's going on?" a lanky youth with curly brown hair asks, stopping short when he notices strangers on his patio.

"This must be Seth?" I venture, remembering the name from this morning's brief conversation. He is the son who isn't supposed to be at home today.

Sandy looks up, obviously perplexed, "It is. Seth, I'd like you to meet two of Ryan's friends from Chino, Megan and Sam Hart."

The youth's eyes widen, "From Chino? So, like, you knew Kid Chino before he reformed?"

Sandy intercedes, cutting off the boy's words, "Son? I thought you were in Rhode Island until tomorrow?"

The boy shrugs, "Yeah, but Summer was kinda' busy with saving the environment, and I couldn't face another day of sleeping on benches and eating unidentifiable dorm food."

His face wrinkles as he rambles on, "And, since we're on the subject of dorm food? Considering we've got company, let me just put it this way -- let's not buy that food card when I go to RISD, okay?"

"I'll take it under advisement," Sandy smiles affectionately at the boy, while Kirsten motions for him to sit down with us.

"Excuse me?" Sam pipes up, squeezing my hand. "Can we go back to what you were saying about 'Kid Chino'? I take it you mean Ryan?"

Seth grins, obviously delighted to elaborate, "Yeah, Kid Chino. With his Fists of Fury. He's kind of a legend around Newport."

"Seth!" Kirsten says under her breath, before turning to me. Her voice sounds a little strained as she hastens to explain, "Kid Chino is a comic book character Seth invented. That's all."

"That's graphic novel, and well, I wouldn't say 'that's all' – not really," the boy quickly objects. "You gotta' admit, Mom, Ryan pretty much _is_ the character. That is, he can be."

I notice Sandy's stern glare directed toward his son, complete with dipped eyebrows, but the boy either doesn't notice, or doesn't pay attention to his father.

If anything, Seth becomes more animated, waving his arms around as he speaks, "I mean, when he arrived here he was nothing like any of the stupid pod people that live in Newport."

He leans across the table toward Sam and me, dropping his voice as he confides, "His second night with us? He basically took on the water polo team!"

"Seth!" Kirsten tries again, in vain.

"Seriously," the boy barely pauses, looking to his father for confirmation, "That's why Mom threw him out, right?"

"Seth!" both Cohens admonish, obviously trying to silence their son before he says even more.

But the boy rolls on, his excitement unabated, "It was so cool! Not so much the throwing out part, exactly, but the punching part was awesome!"

"Seth, I need to speak with you inside," Sandy urges, his strident tone finally quieting the wordy teen.

"Yeah. Okay." Seth rises, following his father toward the kitchen. "Nice to meet you," he calls back, waving cheerfully. He's clueless as to the impact his words have had.

I realize I haven't been breathing – not since the 'Mom threw him out' line.

Kirsten swallows, her voice tentative when she speaks again, "I apologize for Seth. He's a bit… dramatic, sometimes."

Yeah, that's clear, but Seth's dramatics aren't what has my heart beating hard. Memories of Ryan showing up at my door, with no place else to turn – that's what causes my pulse to race.

I try to keep my voice steady, but I don't think I quite succeed, "What he said? About Ryan? You threw him out?"

Kirsten looks down at the table, tracing one graceful finger along the side of her iced tea glass. When she looks up, her eyes are veiled, "It wasn't like you must be thinking. Not like Dawn."

"I hope not." The words are out before I can stop them. Maybe I don't want to stop them. I'm not sure

"Megan," Sam cautions, reminding me where we are, and why.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, trying hard to mean it.

Kirsten nods, "You're being protective of someone you care about. I understand that, Megan. Believe me."

"I'm sure you do – you're a mother."

"Who was afraid for her child. It scared me at first, bringing one of Sandy's clients into our home like that. I… I made some mistakes."

I need to think, so I look away, noticing Sandy and Seth still talking inside the kitchen. Seth is pointing toward the patio, and then waving his arms about wildly before Sandy says something to him, and the boy's hands fall slack at his sides.

Sam pulls my attention back to our table when he answers Kirsten softly, "We all make mistakes sometimes."

I hear the words he doesn't say… the regrets we whisper late at night when darkness unleashes our sorrow.

Sam's empathy seems to sooth our hostess. Kirsten smiles unevenly, "I've… I've learned how special Ryan is … what a treasure he is."

I feel Sam's hand squeezing mine gently, and I squeeze back.

"Do you love him?" I ask, Sam's grip tightening with my question.

"How could I not?" our hostess answers smoothly, a sweet smile forming on her face that reaches into her eyes.

I weigh her answer, struck by how much Kirsten Cohen's eyes reveal, but how much more they keep hidden. I am reminded of Ryan, wondering if Kirsten's far more impenetrable defenses might be a preview of Ryan's as he grows older.

"And he knows that?" I pry, ignoring Sam's heightened pressure on my hand.

Kirsten stares at me for a long moment before she tilts her head and draws her eyebrows together. She seems to choose her words carefully, "He knows he's part of this family."

I feel my eyes sting, as something inside me breaks a little. I pinch my lips together, sucking them between my teeth to keep some semblance of poise.

Kirsten's eyes widen, and she leans toward me, her voice soothing, "Are you okay? Megan?"

I feel Sam's arm wind around my shoulders, and meet his worried glance. Swiping my eyes with one hand, I take an unsteady breath.

"It's okay, Sam – I'm fine," I whisper before turning back to Kirsten.

"I… I just need to know he's loved," I manage to explain.

Kirsten nods sympathetically, "He is. Very much."

Sam hugs me gently, speaking when I can't, "Before we moved, we wanted Ryan to live with us, but Dawn wouldn't hear of it."

"Is that right?" Kirsten's voice wavers ever so slightly.

I study our hostess, my impressions of her mixed and far from clear. Thankfully, my power of speech seems to have returned.

"You don't know how badly I wanted – we wanted – to get him away from Dawn. It broke my heart, watching the way she treated her boys. Routinely drunk or high while her sons went hungry and barely had clothes to wear. Her string of live-ins… the abuse Ryan suffered at their hands broke my heart."

I see the look of horror that crosses Kirsten's face, and make myself stop venting. "I'm sorry – it's just..." I pause, starting over, "It was so frustrating… Dawn wouldn't mother him herself, but she still had fits whenever we took him in or cared for him. I always thought she clung to Ryan in order to convince herself she hadn't failed."

Kirsten twists her rings, blinking before responding, "When she left him with us, she told me she wanted to do something good for him – explaining that she wasn't cut out to be a mother."

"I'd say she got something right. And if I had my way, she'd never get the chance to hurt him again."

"People change," Kirsten says softly.

Once more I look away, noticing Sandy and Seth standing near the kitchen counter, Sandy's hands on his son's shoulders, their heads close together.

I turn back to Kirsten, "I'd like to believe that – and I know some people really do. But Dawn changing? That I just can't believe. I mean, look at her record. For a few weeks or months, sure, she'd be clean, but it never lasted. She'd always backslide and there'd be another loser live-in and suddenly Ryan would sport more bruises. I finally stopped feeling sorry for her, and just wanted her out of his life for good."

Kirsten nods, "I…I appreciate what you're saying. But still, she's his mother, and he loves her. I used to think he'd be happier if they were reconciled – she was here at his graduation, and things went really well between them, but I think now we just got lucky."

She pauses, tapping one finger against her glass. Her voice sounds thicker when she starts speaking once more, "Since the accident she's disappeared again, terrified that the Coopers would try to name her in a lawsuit since she and her boyfriend had restored the car Ryan was driving. The last time she called here, just after Ryan got home from the hospital, she'd been drinking… quite heavily, I think. She said 'goodbye' to him, quit her job, and took off without leaving any contact information. She hasn't called since."

She hesitates once more before adding softly, "I won't push him to reach out again, even if she eventually resurfaces. But I'll support him if he decides he wants to reconnect – I can't refuse – not if he decides that he wants her in his life again."

Maybe I'm not forgiving enough, I think, not sure that I'd be so generous with respect to Dawn. I'd be much more inclined to protect Ryan from her hurtful clutches rather than to encourage their relationship. That may make me a bad person, but unless the day comes when I'm certain that Dawn has changed from the self-destructive, neglectful, self-centered wreck I knew, I can't stand the thought of her coming anywhere near Ryan.

Sam shakes his head, "Sometimes it seems like there are no good answers – particularly when it comes to Dawn Atwood. But please, Kirsten, don't feel like you and Sandy are on your own with Ryan anymore. We're here for him, too. Whenever he needs us."

Kirsten stares at him a second before pulling her face into a wary smile, "Thank you, Sam. That's… good to know."

Turning to Kirsten I find myself wondering about her. She's all smiles, and kindness, and polite conversation, but my sense is that she's always holding back. Maintaining distance.

I wonder if Dawn sensed that, too. If Kirsten's cool exterior made her less threatening, somehow. Less of a competitor for Ryan's affection than say… me? If Kirsten's initial uneasiness with Ryan made her palatable to Dawn, in a way that Sam and I had never been? Wouldn't that be ironic? If Kirsten got what I'd dreamed of because she hadn't really wanted it?

I try to temper my envy with gratitude, "I'm thankful your family was here for Ryan when Dawn left – that he wasn't forced into some group home – or worse, out into the streets. His happiness is what matters to me – I want Ryan to live his dreams, whatever they may be."

"Mrs. H? Mr. H?"

The voice is like a velvet-soft whisper, but I'm sure I would have heard it in the midst of a maelstrom. I've been listening for that voice since the night I left Chino.

"Ryan!" I hear my own strangled cry with some surprise, as instinct overpowers conscious thought and I'm moving.

My chair scrapes noisily against the patio slate as I rocket out of my seat and race to where Ryan stands by the kitchen door. He's immobile, Sandy's hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

He ducks his head, and then looks back up as he smiles hesitantly – the beautiful, shy smile that I love.

I feel my lips tremor as my own smile deepens, while warm tears zag and zig their way down my face.

I search his face, finding the windows that I've been seeking. His deep blue eyes brim with questions as he stands just eighteen inches out of reach.

I realize in that instant that eighteen inches is a world too far away. I think Sandy must recognize it, too, as he lowers his hand and steps back.

My arms open wide as I close the distance that still looms too far between us, pulling Ryan wholly inside my embrace. I feel his heart beating, and hear him breathe, and I whisper, "I've missed you so much."

His arms circle my body, tightening when I speak, and he whispers back, "Me, too."

-------------

_tbc_

A/N: Thanks to those of you who have taken the time to review, or simply let me know you're reading. I appreciate hearing from my readers…


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: The Hart Break **

**Author: **ChaseII

**Story Rating:** PG-13(?) (minor language)

**Disclaimer:** The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, _et. al_. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.

**A/N:** Unbeta'd -- all mistakes are mine, mine, mine... And once again, it may be a while before the next installment... (Not sure at this point how many chapters there will be in all.)

AU. This story follows just after the epilogue for _Seventeen_, and involves the Harts, who were introduced in that story. Chapter 4 is set sometime just after "The Sleeping Beauty", and contains spoilers through that episode. Later parts will contain further spoilers.

**Chapter 4**

From my seat at the table, I can see my wife embracing Ryan, his face visible over her shoulder, both figures bathed in warm amber illumination. Megan whispers something to him and his arms tighten around her. I'm pretty sure she's considering never letting go.

Although there is nothing I want right now more than to join them, I stay rooted to my chair. I have my reasons, the first of which is Kirsten Cohen's troubled face. Her blue eyes are downcast, her focus shifting between the huddled pair below us and her iced tea goblet. Her fingers are wrapped around the glass so tightly I worry that it might shatter.

I simply don't feel that I can leave her sitting here alone, while her husband lingers in the shadows near my wife and Ryan. I know Sandy's watching out for Ryan, making sure contact with Meg doesn't hurt him. Ironically, I think it's really Kirsten who needs his protection – she's the one who seems to be suffering at the moment.

I'm guessing Megan – awash in her euphoria – doesn't even notice I'm not there. I'm sure she doesn't need me beside her as much as Kirsten seems to. Our hostess seems conflicted, as though some part of the tableau below us makes her happy, while something else about it stings.

I'm reminded a little of Dawn's year with Rick, when it took a while for me to make peace with Ryan's open adoration of the Texan. I had to learn it was possible to share a child I loved with someone else.

Kirsten swallows, her voice barely a whisper, "They're… they seem to fit together."

She turns to me, her eyes seeking something I can't quite define.

"He completes a part of her," I muse softly, knowing he completes a part of me, too.

Kirsten sets her glass down, running a finger around its rim, "I think I know what you mean," she says. "With us, it's like he fills a hole I never knew we – I – had until he came."

She turns back to stare at my wife and Ryan, and I study her as she studies them.

As an architect formerly positioned in this part of California, it's natural that I know something about Newport Group – a lot of my colleagues competed with them, and we all studied their projects.

Caleb Nichol was a legend in his day – hot-headed, blindly ambitious, and dangerous to tangle with; while his daughter was widely reputed to be his opposite –icy-smooth… ethical … professional.

In person, Kirsten isn't the supremely self-confident woman her reputation always made her out to be. She's hesitant… somehow unexpectedly vulnerable. I wonder whether she's changed over these last few years, and if so, how and why?

"So, you've known Ryan since he was seven?" she says to me, rousing me out of my reflection.

"He was more like nine," I answer.

She wrinkles her eyebrows, "But Ryan told us he met Megan when he was seven."

And that quickly I'm caught.

I shrug guiltily as I confess, "They'd been friends for nearly two years before Meg finally convinced me I should meet him."

Her eyes narrow, "Two years? Why so long?"

I give her a rueful smile, thinking how often I've asked myself the same question.

"Megan's great with kids, but I'd never spent much time around them. I was an only child who grew up surrounded by adults. Frankly, the thought of spending time around kids was daunting. What would I say to them? What would we have to talk about? Meg used to laugh and say I was over-thinking, and I guess I sort of was."

Kirsten's head tilts to the side as her expression softens, "You two never wanted your own children?"

I look away, not sure how to answer. This is Megan's realm – I'm normally the nodder, agreeing with whatever she chooses to say when this question comes up.

My silence is not lost on our hostess.

"Sam? I'm sorry if … if I pried. It's none of my business," Kirsten says quietly, her fingertips brushing mine.

I turn back to see the apology echoed in her eyes. I force myself to answer – to offer a shadow of our truth.

"It's okay, Kirsten. It's just… we can't have children," I say, and leave it at that.

I don't mention the unthinkable against-all-odds uterine rupture, the catastrophic loss of blood, the perfectly forming but too-premature daughter, or the emergency hysterectomy that saved Megan's life. After nearly twelve years, I can't talk about that night with anyone but Megan. She's stronger than I am when it comes to answering _those_ questions.

I glance toward Megan and Ryan, who have finally separated.

"I never thought we'd have a child, until he came along," I say.

This time she's the one who looks away.

Sandy finally makes his way back to the table, and I promptly rise to my feet, "If you'll excuse me, there's a young man over there I'm really anxious to see."

Kirsten surprises me, reaching out to touch my arm as I'm turning away, her fingers cool as they graze against my skin.

"Thanks, Sam," she whispers.

"Anytime," I answer, privately wondering if my presence actually comforted or caused more pain.

However, those musings occupy only a tiny compartment inside my head.

I'm mostly consumed with longing, fueled by three years of separation from a kid I love – that separation now reduced to something measurable – a space of less than fifteen feet.

Ryan sees me coming, his welcoming smile every bit as bashful as I remember. He's thin, and he looks tired, but he's alive and in one piece and almost within my reach.

"Ace," I smile back, the edges of my happiness expanding, spilling into the space around me.

"Hey," he says, as Megan shifts to his side, clearing the path between Ryan and me.

"You know you're still number one on my VIP list?" I ask as I narrow the gap that still divides us.

He ducks his head, but I can hear him snort. I step close, carefully laying one hand on his shoulder. He looks up, his eyes a liquid blue.

"Come here," I mouth, grateful when he lets me gather him inside my arms. More grateful when I feel him hugging back.

It occurs to me he smells a little like quesadillas and picante sauce, and I think the spicy combination just became a favorite scent. I'm guessing Megan feels the same.

I speak softly by his ear, "I missed you, Ryan. I never want to lose you like that again. You hear me? Never, Ace."

He straightens and eases two small steps backward, his eyes finding mine. I hold still as he plumbs their depths, hoping he reads my feelings as well as he once did.

His focus wavers, dropping to a space somewhere near my feet. It rests there for several seconds before he looks up again, tilting his head to the side. His smile makes a welcome reappearance – this time as a grateful half-smile.

"I hear," he offers, the paucity of words so 'Ryan'.

I search his face, because I know this child, and am rewarded for my efforts.

His eyes are flecked with wonder, and say far more than his words.

---------------

Ryan breaks eye contact, overwhelmed by emotions he's not sure he can handle. He needs to regroup, refocus, think.

"Gotta' get a shower," he says awkwardly, thinking even though it's a lame escape it's at least the truth.

"Sure," Ms. H answers, stepping out of his way.

Except that she's expecting he'll go into the Cohen's home. She's just blocked his route to the pool house.

"Uh, I live over there," he nods toward the glass-cased structure.

He sees the startled glance the Harts exchange, and watches Mr. H's eyes skitter over the pool house as though he's inspecting it structurally. Mrs.H simply blinks.

"Outside? You live outside, in the pool house?" she repeats, as though she must have heard wrong.

"It's cool," he says quickly. When it's obvious they're still troubled he adds, "Seth keeps trying to get me to switch rooms, but I keep saying 'no'."

He's not sure when the Cohens joined them, but he realizes they're there when Kirsten speaks. "It's where my sister lived when she stayed with us a few years ago – it's fully equipped, with its own bath and kitchenette."

Kirsten finds his eyes as she explains further, "We thought Ryan would like some privacy – obviously, though, it's his room, so we've made it his space – personalized it, filled it with his things."

Ryan turns to Mrs. H, who nods, "I see."

But it's clear from her knit brows that she really doesn't. Or that she sees too much.

"Guys," he pleads, looking from Mrs. H to Kirsten.

Mrs. H's face relaxes into a rueful smile as her eyes travel from Kirsten and back to Ryan.

"Sorry, Ryan. I'm sure having a pool house to yourself is a teenage guy's dream, right?"

"Pretty much," he admits, stealing a furtive glance at the Cohens. He's never told them how he feels about living out here – in all these years, they've never really asked.

"Get cleaned up, kid. We'll see you in the kitchen in a few minutes." Sandy shoots him a reassuring smile.

The Harts give him smiles, too – like they're cool with his living arrangement, even if he's guessing that they're not. He hopes they come around for real, but on some deeper level it's kind of nice to think that someone cares.

"Back in fifteen," he promises, heading up the steps to his sanctuary. He slides inside and shuts the door.

-------------

Kirsten sits back in her chair, listening as Ryan laughs at some story Sam's telling about baseball, too many hotdogs, and an eventful ride home from a county little league tournament. This has been a night of stories, and filtered, careful conversation.

She smiles at her second son, "You were really MVP?"

Ryan starts to answer, but Seth interrupts before he can, "Like you even know what that means, Mom."

The conversation whirls away, but not before Ryan's eyes find Kirsten's, lingering there for a long second before they move on. She feels a rush of warmth and reassurance. He's not forgotten her in the midst of this reunion.

Dessert is over before the Harts bring their gifts in from the car.

Sandy has her unwrap the gift they've brought, and she sits stunned by what she's holding. It's an oil painting, vibrant colors on a twenty inch square canvas, in reds and teals and swaths of gold, with images that evoke feelings of hope and possibility. It speaks to her on a multitude of levels.

She looks across at Megan and Sam, "This is amazing. I don't know what to say…"

Megan smiles, "We hope you like it – it's an original by one of our best friends."

"It reminds me of something I saw last week in an art review – an artist that's making quite a stir in New York. Naomi somebody, I think."

"Naomi Reynolds?"

Kirsten's eyes widen, "Don't tell me she's your friend?"

Megan nods, "She's fabulous. You'll see – she can't wait to meet Ryan. She'll want to meet you, too."

There's another painting for Ryan, this one in more subtle tones with almost hidden images of a man, a woman, and a child. A family, connected with color and with care.

Kirsten watches as Ryan touches the canvas, awed by what he sees. His eyes hide nothing as he looks up at the Harts. Kirsten knows his mumbled "Thanks" is unnecessary – Megan and Sam seem at ease with the unspoken.

---------------

"What's this?" Ryan asks, staring at the large box the Harts have set down in front of him. They're sandwiched on the den couch with him in the middle, and the box rests on the sofa table. The Cohens are back in the kitchen, clearing away dishes and giving them a modicum of privacy.

"Memories," Mrs. Hart answers. "And conversations we never got to have."

He bites his lip, opening the box. It's filled with letters – it looks like hundreds of them, with his name on each envelope. He looks up, unprepared for anything like this.

"Mrs. H," he says, looking to her for help.

"You know, maybe you should call us Megan and Sam, now," she says, sucking in her lips as she waits for his reply.

He glances over to Mr. H, half expecting him to object. Mr. H, more than anyone, taught Ryan the worth of manners – the value of respect. Not like his father who demanded obedience and respect while showing none for others, his lessons delivered in rants and blows.

Mr. H taught by example, living his standards. Standards Ryan admired, and tried in own way to follow.

Mr. H catches his glance, and grins, "You're eighteen – an adult, Ace. I think you're old enough to drop the 'Mr.' and 'Mrs.' now."

He pulls his lips between his teeth, and dips his head quickly to the side. "You're sure?"

Mrs. Hart nods quickly, "Very."

He hitches his shoulders, "It'll take some getting used to, but I think I'd like that."

Sam snorts, "It'll take some getting used to for all of us, Ace, but we'll get through the transitions, I promise."

"Yeah, I know," he answers, his attention drawn once more to the cardboard container in front of him.

Megan looks toward the box, "Is it all too much, too soon?"

Ryan refocuses on the stacks of letters, noticing for the first time that they're divided into groupings and tied with colored strings and ribbons.

"It's a lot," he says. He leans closer to the box, picking up one bundle of the letters. "I can't believe you wrote all these."

"We wrote every day, at first. Then once or twice a week, but we never stopped, Ryan. It was our way of talking with you, even when we couldn't actually talk with you like we wanted to."

He drops his head, thinking how he's locked his own memories away. How he's assumed they couldn't possibly still care.

He's awed, and humbled, and more than a little gilt-ridden. All the while he's been ignoring their existence, they've been thinking of his.

Looking up at… Megan and Sam… he shakes his head, "But you had to know. I let you guys down – when I went with Trey that night. I've got a record – at least I did until it was expunged. How could you still…" he sweeps one hand across the top of the box, "… still do this?"

Sam frowns, "You made a mistake, Ace. Everyone makes mistakes, Ryan. Everyone. That doesn't change how we feel about you."

Ryan's throat feels like it has a cork swollen inside, and he can't speak.

Sam leans toward him, "What about us? We made a huge mistake – leaving like we did."

"No," he says, startled so that the word slides out automatically.

"Can you forgive us? Forgive our leaving?" Megan asks, her eyes seeking his.

He stares at her a moment, not believing she's even said that. He can't imagine a world where they wouldn't have gone. Where they shouldn't have gone.

He shakes his head, "But, guys? There's nothing to forgive."

Megan sighs, "I knew that's what you'd say."

Ryan bites his lip, and looks back at the box. "I never wrote to you," he says softly.

Megan smiles, "It's okay. We have time now to catch up. We want to know what's happened in your life. Don't think we don't, just because we haven't pressed for a lot of details today. It'll come. You know me – I'll ask you for answers."

He grimaces, "I sorta' thought you would."

"Count on it," says Sam, and Megan's nodding her agreement.

It's a little daunting, and yet comforting to know that some things haven't changed. He reaches toward the box, still more than a little awestruck, picking up another stack of letters and then one more, noticing Megan's neat handwriting juxtaposed against Sam's scrawl.

"Ace?"

He looks up at Sam. They want to know if he's freaked out, and the truth is he kinda' is.

"I'm sorry. I just… I've never gotten many letters – and most of the ones I've gotten were 'goodbyes'."

Megan bumps him with her shoulder and maintains the contact, her head tilted toward his. "Not a goodbye in the bunch," she says. "And there never will be."

He tilts toward her as well, so that they're nearly touching heads as well as shoulders, and old feelings of comfort surface. This time he doesn't even realize he's smiling.

"You've kinda' convinced me," he says.

"Is that okay?" she asks.

The question surprises him a little, and he pauses before he answers. When the silence lengthens, Megan touches his hand lightly.

She repeats, "Is it?"

He nods, "Maybe more than just okay."

-----------

_tbc_

_Reviews are always deeply appreciated._


	5. Chapter 5

**The Hart Break**

**Disclaimer:** The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, _et. al_. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.

**A/N:** Mostly Unbeta'd -- all mistakes are mine, mine, mine... However, many thanks to Beachtree for a preview and a few much-appreciated suggestions. Regrets for the length of time this is taking, but I appreciate those of you who are sticking with me!

**AU.** This story follows just after the epilogue for _Seventeen_, and involves the Harts, who were introduced in that story. Chapter 5 is set the morning after Chapter 4 (where the Harts came for dinner). The whole story starts sometime just after "The Sleeping Beauty", and contains spoilers through that episode. Later parts will contain further spoilers.

**Chapter 5**

Kirsten watches the clock impatiently, but the minutes crawl by like they're stuck in some sort of perpetual slow motion. It's still not quite six a.m., too early to disturb Ryan. He gets little enough sleep since he's been back home anyway, usually rising by dawn even on days like today when he isn't working.

She doesn't ask him why he shuns extended slumber. She doesn't have to.

She is haunted by nightmares, too, only in hers she gets the call that went to Julie. There's no going back to sleep on those nights. Those nights, she opens the curtains and stares out at the pool house until she can breathe again.

Time drags forward grudgingly, until at last she can busy herself measuring water and grinding whole beans for coffee. She wants the brew to taste fresh – not like it's been sitting for an hour and a half like she has.

It's just past 7:07 when she grabs two mugs of coffee and heads outside, bounding up the steps toward the pool house.

There are shallow puddles of water still standing on the patio from where it rained overnight, and a cool, clean-smelling breeze ruffles her hair. She cuddles one of the over-sized sage-green cups against her body as she knocks on the door and waits for a response. The cup feels warm, even through her silk knit sweater.

"It's open." The disembodied voice sounds groggy.

Great. After all her waiting, she still managed to wake him up. She tells herself it's too late to undo the damage – that retreating now is not an option. She sucks in a deep breath, opens the door, and pokes her head through.

He isn't where she expects to find him. His bed is made. She glances quickly around the room and sees him sitting at his desk, dozens of letters spread out on its surface. He has his temple resting on one fist as he turns his face toward her.

"Kirsten?" His voice sounds weary, but the weariness doesn't mask his surprise to see her at his door. Sadly, the surprise is not unwarranted – it's part of why she's here.

He is wearing the same jeans and long-sleeved cornflower blue pullover he wore last night at their dinner with the Harts. She likes him in that shirt – the color brings out the blue in his eyes. With color he looks more like one of the living, rather than the black-clad ghost he has become.

His hair is mussed, as though he has run his hands through it and left the longer sections in the front warring with one another. His eyes are half-closed with dark shadows visible underneath. His body slumps in its chair like it's seeking a resting place it has been denied.

"Have you been up all night?"

He nods, never lifting his head from his hand.

"You look terrible," she says, the words rolling off her tongue before she can stop them.

He stares at her like he's trying to read her, and she wants to groan. She is barely into this conversation, and she's already screwing up.

"Thanks," he mocks gently, one corner of his mouth turning up.

"Anytime," she says, her relief palpable.

He snorts, pulling his head up off his hand, but he says nothing.

She steps all the way inside, and closes the door behind her with an elbow. She isn't sure whether she should stay where she is or move toward Ryan. Indecision keeps her planted near the door.

She watches him studying her, and wonders if he realizes how paralyzed she feels. She's frustrated with herself – with how hard she's making every little thing. She's the adult. She needs to act like one.

She offers softly, "That came out wrong, just now. What I said. It's just that I worry about you."

"I know." He ducks as he speaks, so she can't see his eyes. Without them as her guide, she's even more disadvantaged than before. Ryan's words are like the tips of icebergs – so much of what he says lies buried deep beneath their surface.

"I brought your favorite coffee," she says, holding up one steaming mug. The aromatic French roast is strong this morning, because she knows that's how Ryan likes it. "I was kinda' hoping we could have that talk we didn't have time for yesterday."

The grimace on his face is fleeting, like it comes of its own accord before he consciously wipes it off. "Sure," he says, but she notices the hesitation in his voice.

He heaps the letters he has spread out across his desk into a loose stack, tossing several scraps of colored ribbon into his drawer. He pushes his chair away from his desk, and the rollers sound loud on the wood flooring.

"Those are from the Harts?" she asks as she nods her head toward the letters, even though she knows they are. She eyes the pages, guessing there must be at least a dozen letters on top of his desk. There are a lot more envelopes on the floor, their flaps unsealed. Letters that have been read, and set aside.

He nods, his eyebrows rising.

She feels a catch in her chest that she doesn't want to acknowledge. She tells herself she needs to caution him, for his own good. Somewhere deep inside, she knows that's not the only motive driving what she is about to say. It may not even be the main one.

"I know it must be tempting to keep reading, but you have hundreds of letters in that box. You shouldn't try to read so many at one time."

He drops his focus to the floor, and then raises dark blue eyes to meet hers. "I know. I meant to stop, but then time kinda' got away from me. It was like the hours got caught up in some sort of hyper-drive, you know? The night just seemed to fly past me."

She nods, hoping he doesn't notice how hard she's struggling to keep her face from betraying her own bout with time.

He rises to his feet, gathering one corner of his lower lip between his teeth. His voice sounds submissive. "Look, I promise you that I won't ever let reading the letters interfere with my job, or with anything I need to do here, okay?"

She shakes her head, frustrated with herself. "I know that. That's not what I'm talking about – I just want to make sure you take care of yourself. You need to get your sleep. That said, maybe it would be better if I came back later?"

His eyes stray, and then come back to rest on her. His voice sounds like he is trying hard to sound more alert than he is. "It's really okay, Kirsten. This isn't exactly my first all-nighter."

She's torn. He needs to sleep… he won't be thinking clearly, and she wants to talk about some important things. But she also wonders if the fact he is tired might not work to their advantage. He might be less guarded. Besides, what are the odds he'd sleep now anyway?

He notices her hesitation and steps down from the elevated rim, eyebrows furrowing. "Did I miss something? Is everything okay?"

So like Ryan, to check.

She tries to smile reassuringly, but she's not sure if it comes out right. She hates that she is nervous. She wants to walk into this pool house as easily as she'd walk into Seth's room, but there is too much in the way. She should know. She is responsible for most of the obstacles herself. She started building them the first night Ryan occupied this room.

"Can we sit down?" she asks, offering him the mug she just realizes she's still holding.

"Sure." He steps toward her and accepts the steaming coffee. He waves the mug under his nose, his eyes widening just a little as he seems to recognize the blend. "Thanks," he says softly, before taking a long sip. His eyes reflect more layers to the word.

She nods, taking a moment to look around the pool house while he savors his first few sips. She is not quite sure where she should sit. Is it fair that he sits on the low bed, while she towers above him in the chair? Her father used to play that type of power game with her and she always hated how disadvantaged it made her feel. But she doesn't feel comfortable simply plopping on his bed. It's his space, and she feels almost like she'd need an invitation she doesn't think she'll get.

His eyes flicker from her to his cup and back again. When she doesn't speak he does. "Want me to come to the house?"

She wants to say 'yes', but she doesn't think that would send the right message, either. It's uncomfortable thinking of their home in terms of 'Ryan space' and 'Cohen space', but she has to admit she does. He does, too, she's sure. She thinks of times he's entered their house like a guest unsure of welcome, and closes her eyes.

"Kirsten?"

Her eyes open, and she sees him watching her. Shaking off his offer, she searches for neutral territory.

"How about out there?" She nods to the two chairs between the pool house and the pool. She knows he likes to sit there. She sees him sometimes at night, sitting there alone.

He shrugs, "Good by me. Sure."

He eases around her so he can open the door, and they both exit, settling in the cushioned wicker chairs.

Kirsten sets her mug on the table between them and gathers her courage. Honestly, what about this is so damned hard?

The words that come to her feel wrong but she can't figure out any right way to start, so she says them anyway, "We've never talked about your living in the pool house."

He blinks, and his eyelids close heavily before he raises them again. "Look, if this is because of last night, I'm really sorry. I'll talk to the Harts, okay?"

She brushes the hair back from her face, and picks up her coffee cup. She fingers it thoughtfully, running her index finger around the rim as she answers. "Ryan, you have nothing to be sorry for. Neither do the Harts. The fact is, were I them, I'd have reacted the same way."

He sets his cup down. "Protective."

His eyes are somewhere far away. She expects he is lost in memories they do not share.

She takes another drink from her cup, hoping it will bolster her courage. What she really wants is a glass of chardonnay, but she knows this morning isn't about her own struggle. At least, not more than it needs to be.

She grips her mug tighter and speaks. "We – you and Sandy and I – never talked about the pool house. Sandy and I just made a lot of assumptions, but it hit home last night that we should have actually talked with you to be sure we were right."

Ryan's eyes are focused on the pool, but Kirsten can see his long eyelashes flutter. He turns to her, "You weren't wrong."

"I didn't think we were, but that's not my point, exactly. My point is we should have asked you if you'd rather have another room. We should have discussed all your options, and let you make your choice."

"I would have chosen the pool house." He turns to her, "You were right about the privacy thing – I like having some space that's sort of mine."

He's very careful with his words, she notices, even though he's groggy. He's also careful about what he doesn't say.

"It is your space," she says, but even as she says the words she remembers all the times they've asked him to give it up to someone else. She looks across to see him studying her, and she knows he's thinking about the same forfeitures.

"No more 'sort of', okay?" she says. "No more moving out for company. Deal?"

"It's okay," he argues, just like she knew he would.

"No, it's really not."

He looks away again, several seconds passing before he turns back toward her.

"Thanks," he half mumbles, his eyes finding hers. He holds her gaze for a long moment before he returns his attention to his coffee.

She would like to just sit here in silence, watching the horizon with Ryan.

However, she forces herself to probe further. "I'm guessing you would have liked for us to have at least asked. To have made it clear that we'd love to have you living inside the main house if you wanted that."

He turns away again, this time staring at the infinity pool. She can see his shoulders rise and fall, but he doesn't answer.

"I'm sorry, Ryan. That we didn't."

He continues to stare at the water in the pool, but this time he speaks. "The thing is, after it stopped being about trust, being out here has been really cool. I used to be afraid you'd make me move inside the house, so the truth is I kind of avoided the conversation, too."

She takes a long sip of her coffee, letting the liquid warm her throat. That simply, he offers both insight and forgiveness.

"It stopped being about trust early on. You know that, right?"

He scoffs, "Yeah, although it's not like you guys ever exactly locked me out, anyway. Not even that first night."

She doesn't tell him that she wanted to lock the doors that night. That she fought with Sandy about the locks, and lost. There's far too much distance between them as it is.

She tilts her head as she turns to him. "Can we do this whole thing better, Ryan? Can we make a commitment going forward? That I'll ask for your opinions? And that you'll let me know how you feel?"

He catches her eyes with his, and gives her the barest hint of a smile. "We can try."

Anything else he might have said is caught up in a yawn, and once he recovers he takes a long draw from his coffee.

"Sorry," he says. "Guess I'm not as good at overnighters as I used to be."

She sits up straighter in her chair, and then leans a little toward him. "It's okay. The letters must have been really engaging to keep you up all night."

For the first time since they've been sitting there, his eyes seem to light up from within. "They're amazing."

"Amazing?" She tries to keep her voice steady. She needs to be supportive – she wants to be supportive.

He nods, but then to her surprise he speaks again, "To be honest, I'm trying to wrap my head around everything I've read. When they went to Guyana, the Harts told me they didn't want to lose me from their lives, but at the time I figured they were just saying that to make me feel better about their leaving."

She tries not to let him see how stunned she is that he's opening up to her this way. She keeps her voice low as she asks, "You're surprised to learn they meant what they said?"

He chews at his lower lip. "They were there for me so many times when I was a kid. So, I mean, I wanted all the promises to be real, but back then…" He stops speaking and shrugs his shoulders, this time sucking both his lips between his teeth. His jaw is taught, and she can see him struggle with some distant memory.

It's what he doesn't say that tears at her heart. She knows there's a world of pain inside his silence. Pain he probably doesn't think she can handle. Sadly, she's afraid he might be right. She tells herself he is suffering enough already, without resurrecting a hurtful, sordid past.

Maybe it's just that she is a coward. She isn't sure. She only knows she has to make a choice between addressing the present or the past.

She hears herself ask softly, "And now?"

She feels the moment shift, as Ryan seems to pull himself back from wherever his thoughts have taken him. He slowly refocuses, a moment of confusion evident before he catches up with her question.

"Now? Now I get that they were serious." His eyes drift toward the horizon as he seems to weigh his words. He turns back to her, "It's awesome, but it's also kind of overwhelming, if that makes any sense."

Kirsten wants to ask if Ryan believes the Cohens are serious about how important he is to them, too, but she doesn't. She's afraid he'll shut down the window he has opened to his feelings about the Harts. "They've obviously spent a lot of time thinking about you. You've been part of their lives while they've been away."

His eyes drop to the patio as he nods. "But they haven't been part of mine."

"And you feel guilty about that."

He nods again, but he continues to stare at the patio.

"But at the same time you must feel… I'm guessing 'cherished'?"

He tilts his face toward her, his eyes widened a little. "Yeah, that's a good way to put it. I mean, I've never felt quite like that before."

His words carry no hint of accusation or unmet expectation – just wonder. She thinks about all the times she's held back her touch. All the feelings for him she's never tried putting into words. All the instances she could have closed some of their distances, but didn't.

He bites his lips, his fatigue showing as he rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes and stifles another yawn. When he speaks, he sounds like he's thinking out loud, rather than filtering his words.

"I guess I never knew what a real mother could be like, until I saw how you were with Seth. I grew up thinking everything was conditional."

Kirsten wants to reach out to him, but she's afraid she'll break this spell. She settles for reaching out verbally. "Love shouldn't be conditional."

He shifts a little in his seat, ducking his head and looking back up at her through his eyelashes. He speaks so softly she has to lean forward to hear him.

"I think I get that now. I mean, I know you don't have any conditions with Seth."

With Seth? She sits back in her chair as his words settle in her stomach. How many conditions has Ryan lived under with them? How many has she set?

He grows reflective as he continues. "You know last year, when you wanted me to reconnect with Dawn? I spent a lot of time thinking about why that seemed so important to you."

Like Ryan earlier, she has to catch up with where he's gone. It's not hard – she has spent a lot of time thinking about that, too. "I wish I'd handled that whole thing differently," she says.

His eyebrows wrinkle. "I gotta' say, at the time the thought of seeing my mom again seemed pretty daunting. But I think I figured out why you pushed me toward my mother. You wanted to give the two of us another chance. Maybe for what you and Seth have?

She stares deep into her coffee cup, like it will tell her what she should say, but it is dark and silent. She lifts her eyes to find Ryan studying her face. He is right, but he is also very, very wrong.

"Honestly? I'm not even sure what I wanted. My feelings were complicated. I know I worried that you might feel like you needed to give up your own family in order to be a part of ours, and I didn't want you to feel that way. I still don't."

He draws one leg up on the chair, wrapping his arms around it. He leans his forehead against his knee. "Kind of a moot point," he mumbles.

"For now, maybe. Maybe not forever. But Ryan? I never meant… That is, I hope you never felt like I was pushing you away. I never meant for you to feel that way. I always thought of your relationship with your mother as an addition to ours – yours and mine – I never thought of it as any kind of substitute."

Ryan grips his leg tighter, but says nothing.

She wishes she could see his eyes, but she can't. She tries to explain, "My actions back then had a lot to do with my identifying with Dawn. Partially because of our alcoholism – I recognize that. But I also know it meant the world to me to be there with you on your big milestones. When you turned eighteen. When you graduated."

He glances sideways at her, but won't hold the contact. She reaches out, brushing his arm lightly with her hand. "I was…I am… so proud of you. The young man that you've become. I'm proud of all your accomplishments at Harbor – I know how hard you worked, and I know what you achieved."

She can see his ears flush pink.

"Anything I did was thanks to you guys," he says, his voice raspy.

She tilts her head, "You did the work. You earned every honor you received. I felt so privileged to be there with you. To share in your accomplishments. Somehow I couldn't bear to think of your mother missing out on sharing those moments with you, too. I figured she'd want what I wanted. I guess I thought you'd want her with you, too."

His face comes up. "You're not like Dawn."

She swallows as she meets his eyes.

He doesn't wait for her to speak. "You got help. You made a choice, and you chose your family."

She looks away. "I know. But before then – before I made that choice – I made terrible mistakes. Like, I said things. Horrible things… to so many people I loved. Dad. Sandy. And you, Ryan. At my intervention I dared you to speak to me."

He raises his eyebrows. "You said you let me into this family. It was the truth."

"It wasn't just what I said. It was also how I said it. Sometimes when I'm not sleeping well, I can still hear myself speaking to you – the tapes play over and over in my head and I just cringe. But the fact is, I've been such a coward that I've avoided talking to you about the intervention at all."

"Forget it, okay? I've heard lots worse, believe me."

She shakes him off, "I can't forget it. I never apologized to you, but I want you to know that I'm so, so sorry. I lashed out because I was terrified of what you might say. I could discount everyone else in that room, but not you. Never you. So I used the sharpest weapon I had at my disposal, even though I knew I'd hurt you. I thought it would keep you from talking, but I was wrong. I couldn't be more sorry."

She looks back at him, and catches him blinking. He nods, "I know how alcohol affects people, Kirsten. I've seen it. Heard it. Felt it. Trust me, it's okay. I understand. I understood back then."

"I'm still sorry. And also very grateful, Ryan. So grateful for what you said to me that day."

His eyes lock onto hers, and she feels like she's being truth-read before he ducks his head. She wants to tell him she loves him, too, but it's so much harder than it ought to be, to say the words out loud.

She has never said 'I love you' to Ryan alone – without Seth acting as their buffer. She wishes she were like Sandy. Sandy would just say what he wants to say, without second guessing himself. Without worrying if he's earned the right. Without clearing away the obstacles between them first.

"I'm just glad you're better," Ryan says solemnly, looking up at her through his eyelashes. If he notices her struggle, he doesn't show it.

"So am I," she agrees. "So am I."

He takes a final sip from his coffee cup before he sets it on the table.

She gathers her courage. If she can't tell him how much she loves him, she can do something else. Something to ease some of her guilt – some of what always seems to hold her back.

She says softly, "I owe you another apology. Not only was I wrong to push you to reconnect with Dawn – I was especially wrong letting you go see your mom alone. When I think about it today, all I can think about is that you might have run into anything out there. If you were going to see her today, I'd go with you. That much would be non-negotiable."

His face clouds as he shakes his head. "It worked out better that I went alone."

"Non-negotiable," she repeats.

He rubs at his eyes, wiping at his face with his hands. He shrugs, "It's another moot issue."

"Because?"

When he speaks again he's clearly uncomfortable, "I'm not going to try to find her again. I'm done. In the end my mom always chooses some deadbeat guy with a good connection to alcohol or drugs."

"Oh, Ryan," she whispers. She's amazed that he is still answering her questions – volunteering more than she's even asked. Has it always been this simple? Is the secret merely in the asking?

"It's okay, Kirsten. You guys made it okay."

"I'd choose you," she says, hoping he understands what she's really saying.

His face flushes a little, but he doesn't speak.

"Ryan?"

He looks up, his face a careful mask. "Between alcohol and Seth, you chose your son. That's more than my mom ever did."

"I chose you, too." Doesn't he know that?

His mask stays in place as he nods. His silence speaks volumes.

She needs to help him understand. She needs to show him her truth – like she did for Seth. "Ryan? I was wondering…" She pauses, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly.

She starts again, "I'd love if you'd come with me to one of my open AA meetings. This week, or maybe next?"

He turns away, but from this angle she can see his eyelashes flutter slightly. His voice is soft. "Seth said you took him once."

She wonders what else Seth told Ryan. She'd told her group that night that Seth was the reason she'd quit drinking. It was the truth – but not the whole truth. She leans forward in her chair.

"I thought it would be good for Seth to see how AA works for me. To see first-hand the support it lends. I hoped seeing would give him some comfort."

Ryan nods, but remains silent. She can almost hear the wheels turning in his mind, as far too hurtful memories are dredged closer to the surface. The pain etched across his face reminds her why she hasn't asked him to come.

"It's okay if you don't want to come with me. You may understand too much already."

He shakes his head. "No. I mean, I'd like to go with you. It means a lot that you'd ask me." His mouth contorts into a line, but he meets her eyes with his.

The sincerity reflected there is stunning. She finds herself wishing she'd asked him long before. "It means a lot to me, that you'll come," she says.

The teenager actually blushes a little, ducking his head self-consciously. She can't tell him how endearing he looks right now – he'd be mortified – so she searches for a change of subject.

She looks through the French doors toward Ryan's desk and hesitates an instant before taking what feels like a monumental risk. "Is there anything you could share about the letters that you've read? Anything at all?"

He blinks, his face betraying his surprise, but he answers. His voice is laced with a touch of awe. "About the letters? Yeah. Maybe."

She tilts her head, giving him time to collect his thoughts. He looks up at her through his eyelashes, and continues speaking.

"I guess they kinda' remind me of you. I mean, Megan wrote things in her letters no one has ever said to me – things that made me think of you and Seth."

"Like?" She holds her breath, wanting and yet not wanting him to answer.

He seems caught up in his own thoughts as he picks at a thread in his jeans before he answers. "Like she said she carried this box she keeps with mementos of me – baseball pictures, old library cards, newspaper clippings, stuff like that – with her on the plane so it couldn't get lost. She said those things were more important to her than anything else she owned."

He doesn't know how Megan feels about him? Is that possible, when it's so obvious to her?

"You didn't expect that?"

He shakes his head, "At first, I thought she'd gone crazy. I mean, how wild is that? That a bunch of clippings and stuff related to me could be so important to her? But the truth is, I kind of get it. I mean, there are some pictures I wish I hadn't thrown away. And then I started thinking about you, and how you must have things of Seth's you would never part with."

She thinks about the baby bracelet she hordes, with tiny square blue beads and 'SETH' spelled out on four white blocks. She has his baby book, so meticulously filled out it makes her laugh when she looks at it, but she wouldn't trade it for its weight in diamonds. A tiny silver cup and spoon. Cards (but no photographs) from his bris. A hand-made white christening dress Seth hates to think he wore, with small hand-knit white booties. Boxes of photos from their Berkeley years.

She manages to say, "Precious things."

He snorts as though the word 'precious' embarrasses him a little. She swipes at her eyes when he ducks his head.

She thinks of what she has of his. A couple of pictures his mother sent to her last year, which she keeps framed on her dresser. A few candid shots from school events, or social occasions. The Christmas card from the first year he came to live with them. His school photos. His grade reports from Harbor. It's not much to show for three years.

She looks across at the teenager who has become like her second son, and considers what a powerful modifier 'second' is. She knows Ryan's revelations about the letters are not meant to sting, but they do. They underscore how in the Harts' world, Ryan is an only son.

He yawns again, and rearranges himself in his seat. His feet are now both on the ground in front of him, with his body slouching further down in his chair as though it's seeking the sleep it is denied.

She whispers, "The box sounds like a very special 'mom' thing."

His face turns toward her, and his eyes brighten once more. "Yeah, it does, doesn't it?"

"It does."

Dear God it truly does. She feels like her face is paralyzed as she tries to hide her rising jealousy. She knows it's wrong to feel this way.

He looks back toward the horizon. "I keep thinking this must be how Seth feels having you."

"You've got me, too," Kirsten counters, her voice more wounded than she intends.

He blinks, his eyelids appearing heavy. His eyes seek hers and hold them for a long moment before he answers. "You gave me more ..."

Whatever he was going to say is interrupted when the telephone rings. It sounds like stereo from here, because she can hear Ryan's phone as well as the one in the kitchen. Ryan straightens in his chair.

"That's probably the Harts," he says. "Do you mind?" He looks at her for permission to leave.

"Go," she says. He's halfway out of the chair before she finishes the word.

Kirsten can see him as he answers. She hears him laugh, and watches him bring one crooked finger up to his mouth shyly. His pleased grin says he's heard something good. She can't make out much of what he's saying, but his voice sounds happy and relaxed.

She closes her eyes and sees Megan holding Ryan. She imagines Megan telling him things that she would say to Seth. Things she should say to Ryan, too. Things he deserves to hear from someone who wants to be his mother. She squeezes her eyes tighter.

"Kirsten?"

She starts, wondering how long he's been watching her. Her voice feels shaky as she speaks. "How are Megan and Sam?"

His eyes continue appraising her as he responds. "They're great. They said they spoke to their friend Smith Reynolds last night after they left here. I guess UC Berkeley's been after Mr. Reynolds for the last couple of years to develop and head some sort of architectural outreach program. Berkeley wants someone to teach fall and spring semesters, and lead student outreach projects over the summer."

"Student outreach projects?"

"Yeah. Volunteering in disadvantaged areas or disaster recovery locations. Stuff like that."

"That sounds like something Berkeley would be into. So, you're saying Mr. Reynolds might be an instructor at Berkeley next fall? When you get there?"

Ryan shakes his head. "Not exactly. Seems he's involved full-time with developing or leading international projects, so he keeps turning them down. But when Sam told Mr. Reynolds that I was going to Berkeley in the fall, one thing kind of led to another. I guess Mr. Reynolds made some calls to the search committee last night."

"Last night?"

He shrugs and raises his eyebrows. "Sam says anyone who knows Mr. Reynolds expects his calls at odd hours."

"And?" she probes warily.

"And the head of the search committee called Sam straight away. He's got an interview later this week for the position."

"He does?" Her lungs tighten as she tries to assimilate this news. Ryan and the Harts potentially in the same city, while she and Sandy are six hours away? She knows she should be happy for Ryan. She needs to be happy. She needs to breathe.

Ryan walks around her and sits on the very edge of his chair, his hands clasped and dropped between his knees. "It's not like he's automatically going to get the job or anything, but they're going up there for a few days, and they've asked if I'd like to come."

She straightens in her chair. "Would you? Like to go?"

His fingers tighten, and his hands rise higher until they're level with his knees. "I was only there the one time..."

He doesn't remind her it ended early. He doesn't have to. She'll never forget she's the one who pulled him home.

He continues, "I'd like to have a little more time to see what's there. Walk around the campus. That is, if it's okay with you guys."

She summons her best smile, hoping it passes muster. "I think it would be good for you to spend more time in Berkeley."

"Yeah."

The word is hesitant, as though there's more he wants to say but doesn't.

She speaks for him. "The trip would also give you some private time with Megan and Sam."

"Yeah." The word floats between them like another iceberg, his eyes reflecting an unsettling mixture of hope and guilt.

She knows he's waiting for her permission. She knows he'd stay home if she asked him to – he thinks he owes them that much and more. He doesn't see that while the Cohens may have saved him, he saved them, too.

She says the only thing she can. "I think you should go to Berkeley. That is, if you want to." She pauses an instant before she adds, "And I believe you do."

"I … yeah, you're right. I kinda' do."

"Then I'll clear everything with Sandy," she promises. That much she knows how to do.

His eyes are bright as he rises, pointing his thumb toward the pool house. "Thanks. I'll just call the Harts back and make arrangements."

She nods, and he is instantly on his way back to the pool house.

Reluctantly she realizes that their conversation is over. She rises from her chair and gathers up their empty mugs.

She tries telling herself Ryan's new enthusiasm is a good thing. Anything that brings light back to the teenager's eyes is good, isn't it?

Ryan stops just outside his door, and turns back to her. His voice is soft, sliding around her like a comforter. "Maybe we can go to your AA meeting next week?"

"I'll look forward to it," she says, quietly rejoicing.

"Yeah. Me, too." To her further delight he actually gives her one of his little half-smiles.

As he eases inside his room, she's left smiling, too. She loves his half smiles. She has missed them these last months.

She's all the way across the patio when she hears him laugh again, the sound drifting out through his open door. Her breath catches a little, and she lays one hand across her heart.

It isn't Ryan's laughter that hurts. She actually loves that sound. It's like a precious gift.

Only the gift is meant for someone else.

_tbc_

_AN: Reviews are greatly appreciated._


	6. Chapter 6

**The Hart Break**

**Disclaimer:** The OC Universe, with all its assorted characters, belongs to Josh Schwartz, _et. al_. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, nor is any money being made.

**A/N:** All mistakes are mine, mine, mine... However, many thanks to Beachtree for her preview and much-appreciated suggestions.

**AU.** This story follows just after the epilogue for _Seventeen_, and involves the Harts, who were introduced in that story. Chapter 5 is set the morning after Chapter 4 (where the Harts came for dinner). The whole story starts sometime just after "The Sleeping Beauty", and contains spoilers through that episode. Later parts will contain further spoilers.

Megan feels Sam's fingers tighten around hers as they follow a chattering Seth Cohen toward his kitchen. The boy barely stops for breath as he backpedals his way through the house, the word torrent punctuated by flailing arms and a gamut of facial contortions.

"Yeah, so Dad says to tell you he's sorry he's not here. He planned to be, but he got a phone call from the night clerk's office thirty minutes ago and had to rush down to the courthouse. Which wouldn't be a problem except that Mom left before dawn this morning to help out with some Harbor-sponsored clothing drive, which is kinda' weird because, I mean, we don't even go to Harbor anymore, but The Kirsten can never say 'no' to Julie Cooper…"

The boy pauses for a beat, drawing back one corner of his mouth in a sort of half-grimace before shrugging and continuing his ramble. "Then again, to be fair to Mom, Julie's rumored to eat Newpsies for breakfast – and it's an established fact that she seduces way more than her fair share of the local gentry. Take Jimmy Cooper, Neil Roberts and yes, I have to admit, even my grandfather for instances. And don't even get me started about the whole sordid Luke…"

He stops rambling and tilts his head, squeezing his eyebrows together as he halts his progress. He raises his index finger, punching the air. "But that's not the point here, is it? So like I was saying, Dad was supposed to be here when you guys came but now he's gone, too, 'cause his latest client got arrested and is being arraigned in like", he looks at his watch, "four minutes."

He draws a breath and starts again. "But on the bright side, it's not Ryan who got arrested, so all in all I think we could agree it's not such a bad morning. Not exactly what Walt might call a zippity-doo-dah day, if he weren't, you know, in a cryogenics lab, but I definitely think there's a little zip in our morning. Maybe even some 'ippity'. What do you think? Would you say there's some 'ippity'?"

"Excuse me?" Sam blinks.

Seth just nods to himself, mumbling something about 'doo-dah' and some sort of 'color indicator' scale that Megan doesn't even try to follow.

"Hey," Ryan interrupts from inside the kitchen. "You guys up for bagels before we head up the coast?"

He nods to the bar stools by the island as he heads to a nearby cabinet.

Sam's face clears. "If they come with coffee, count me in."

"Coming right up," Ryan assures him, pulling mugs down from a shelf.

The kitchen smells like the fresh-brewed coffee, with undertones of lemon and eucalyptus. Megan watches Ryan's quick, efficient movements as he pours the brew and recognizes something of the athletic child from Chino in the young man he has become.

"I'm so glad you're coming with us," Megan says, brushing Ryan's arm lightly as he hands her a mug brimming with rich French roast.

His eyes catch hers for just an instant. "Glad you asked."

The Cohen breakfast bar soon buzzes with activity. Seth crowds beside Ryan in front of the bagel slicer, rubbing his hands together greedily, while she and Sam perch upon the bar stools.

Megan grins as she watches Ryan 'schmear' (his word) her bagel with cream cheese. He was a toast guy back in Chino.

Seth nods his head approvingly. "He learned how to do that from Dad. It's a Cohen talent. Dad's very proud of his protégé."

Ryan cocks his head toward Seth and glares at him.

"What?" Seth's eyebrows shoot up.

Megan's grin grows a little wider. "Ryan's always been a quick study."

Ryan hands her a plate with her perfectly smeared raisin bagel, his eyes locking onto hers. "Don't encourage him," he warns, but the smile playing at the corners of his mouth says far more than his words.

"So, where are you guys staying?" Seth asks a few moments later, after Ryan serves Sam and schmears a bagel for himself. Without a word, Seth plucks Ryan's breakfast from his plate and bites off a sizable chunk.

Sam's eyes follow Seth's actions, his eyebrows furrowing just a little before he answers the teen's question. "We're staying in a friend's relative's house, just off-campus."

"Cool," the lanky teenager mumbles around a mouthful of bread and cream cheese, lifting the remnants of the bagel up in a salute to Ryan. "Mmmm. Love sesame bagels."

"Yeah. Me, too," Ryan mutters, reaching for the last (not sesame) bagel and repeating his slice and schmear routine.

Vintage Ryan, Megan thinks – letting someone else have what belongs to him without any obvious protest. Seth appears completely unfazed, licking his fingers after he pops another hunk of the stolen breakfast into his mouth.

Hardly waiting to chew, Seth offers, "If you want some company, dude, I've got the time. You. Me. Berkeley. Could make for some classic Seth-Ryan fun and frolic. What do you say?"

Megan glances at Sam, whose fingers twitch almost imperceptively. She doubts Seth noticed, but wouldn't bet against Ryan. When your very survival depended for years on paying attention to minutia, would you ever stop noticing the little things?

Ryan's face looks like he just inhaled a whiff of something rank. "Seth, don't say 'frolic'. Ever. Again."

Seth's head dips a little. "Too gay?"

When Ryan's eyes practically drill a hole through Seth's forehead, the dark-haired boy gulps down his final bite and nods. "Yeah. _C'est fini_ for 'frolic'. But seriously, Ryan, I'm available to, you know, do _manly_ things. It'd be like old times. You and me. Just hanging out…"

Ryan takes a bite of his own bagel, shaking off Seth's offer. His voice is a study in placation. "Thanks, man, but not necessary. I'm good."

His glance sweeps over Megan and Sam, and he amends, "We're good."

Sam leans toward Megan, just enough so that she feels his arm softly nudge hers. She recognizes the signal – her husband is pleased.

She watches in something between disbelief and wonder as Seth openly sizes up Sam and then herself, before the boy leans in to Ryan and stage-whispers, "You sure you don't need a wing-man? Someone your age?"

Ryan catches Megan's eyes, a silent apology written across his face. He then turns to address Seth with what sounds like long-practiced patience. "Yeah, Seth, I'm sure. I've got this one."

With a noise Megan recognizes as relief, Sam hops down from his stool, carrying his plate to the sink. Megan sees Seth eyeing Sam's actions curiously.

"So, did our Ryan learn to clean up after himself at Hart House?" the boy asks.

"Why don't you ask Ryan?" Sam replies, running water over the dish and stacking it neatly in the dishwasher. Megan is amazed the man's voice doesn't betray his irritation, certain that he's keeping his back to Seth on purpose, buying time to clear the scowl she's sure is on his face.

Seth shakes his head. "Uh, yeah. 'Cause that Ryan, he's a real chatterbox. Talks all the time. Can't shut him up."

"Seth," Ryan growls.

"What?"

Ryan glares, causing Seth to point.

"See?" Seth stage whispers again. "I rest my case."

Sam returns from the sink and places a hand on Ryan's shoulder, his voice softly restrained. "I'm going out to the car, Ace. I think I packed some files I need to review on the way up. I'm going to go look for them."

Ryan stares at him a beat, but when Sam smiles back reassuringly, Ryan visibly relaxes, nodding.

"Okay. I promise I'll be ready in just a minute."

With a little squeeze Sam releases the boy. "I'm not in a hurry. You guys finish up here, and I'll see you and Megan outside. I saw your bag by the door, so I'll grab it throw it in the car with our things."

Ryan nods again, "Cool."

Megan watches Sam stride down the hall, until he disappears out of sight. She stands up, holding up her index finger. "Just give me a minute, guys. I'll be right back."

Without waiting for an answer, she follows Sam's trail out the door. She finds him pulling out the bags he packed so perfectly into the trunk only an hour earlier. Several are now lying scattered on the ground.

"So you're really looking for files, huh?" she asks.

"Um-hum." He pulls a large bag closer, turning it toward him.

"And you're okay?"

His lips twist as he looks up. "I will be. Go on back inside, and take your time. I really do have to find my Berkeley files – I need to re-read them on the way, because I want to spend time with you and Ryan once we get there."

She sidles up next to him as he starts unzipping the larger pockets in his duffle. "You can't fool me, Babe. You're avoiding more time with Seth."

He looks up from his search. "Busted. Honey, I'm sorry, but there's just something about that kid that gets under my skin."

"Sam, he's nineteen. I think he's supposed to get under our skin."

Sam huffs. "Nineteen? He acts more like nine. A self-indulgent nine at that."

She can't disagree with that assessment, but she counters, "Well, regardless, he's Ryan's friend, so we're going to have to make room for him."

"I know." Sam doesn't sound thrilled by the thought.

"Best friend, Sam."

Sam sighs, and nods. "I'm working on it, for Ryan. But, for the moment, let me work on it from a distance, okay?"

He reaches for her hand, his fingers twining through hers fleetingly before he brushes her cheek with his other thumb.

She turns her face up toward him, his lips touching hers gently, and then again more deeply. She smells his shampoo, and the light musk cologne he wears, and feels a little light-headed.

She backs up, staring into Sam's face. "When you put it that way…"

She leans in for one more kiss before she pulls away.

His eyes linger on her lips, but he doesn't stop her as she turns to go back inside the Cohen manse.

As she walks into the kitchen, the two teenagers are standing on opposite sides of the breakfast counter. Seth's face is animated, his dimples deepening as speaks.

"So, Ryan, buddy – promise me you'll keep your nose clean and your fists lowered while you're away. Remember what we've talked about. No more juvie daycare for you, dude. It's the Big House from now on." A smirk spreads across his face.

Ryan's outward demeanor plummets from upbeat to still. Megan sees the light flush that rises to his face as he glances sideways toward her, but Seth is either oblivious or indifferent to the rippled wake of his remark.

Megan quietly joins Ryan by the barstools, one hand wrapping around the back of the nearest stool. She squeezes it tightly, imagining for just an instant that it's Seth's scrawny neck she's clutching.

She aims for neutral as she speaks. "Ryan, would you mind checking on whether Sam found his files and if he's got everything loaded back into the trunk? I think he wanted to go over the route with you, too. I'll be out soon – I just want to leave a note for the Cohens with our Berkeley address and contact details."

The blond teen blinks a second, like he's switching gears inside his head, not quite on the same page with her.

"Please?" she adds. "Please? Check on Sam?"

He stares at her, his eyes probing hers, before slowly nodding. "Alright."

Seth doesn't heed Ryan's non-verbals, and repeats his earlier offer. "Sure you don't want me to go with, dude? I can be packed in like, two minutes."

Up until now Ryan has been gentle with his rebuffs, but this time he's glacial.

"Very sure," he says as he stalks away, leaving Megan alone with Seth.

Seth is staring at Ryan's retreating back, his face filled with questions. He turns to Megan, his hands upturned as he hitches his shoulders upwards in baffled resignation. "What's with him?" he asks.

She stares at him a second, trying to decide whether he's as clueless as he seems to be. She honestly can't tell.

She steps up to the island, so that they're face to face, separated by a barricade of wood and granite. "Seth, that thing you said about juvie and prison? Don't you think, given Ryan's history, and his family's experience, that might have been insensitive?"

His eyes widen, and then narrow under furrowed brows. "Insensitive? About the Big House? I mean, that's crazy, 'cause Ryan is totally cool with it. It's just a thing with us. You know, one of our 'in-jokes'."

Megan shakes her head as she absorbs what the teenager has just said. "Maybe I am crazy, but I don't think Ryan sees joking about prison as 'just a thing'. Judging from his reaction just now, I'd say he finds it pretty upsetting."

Seth frowns. "It's Ryan. He broods and glares the same as you or I breathe. It's normal. SOP. Look, I've been saying the same thing ever since he turned eighteen. He's fine with it."

Megan crosses her arms, her fingernails digging into her skin as she stares across at the teenager. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. It's what I do – I bring the funny, 'cause we all know that Ryan is down with the brooding, and I gotta' give us some balance. I'm yin and he's yang, I'm hot and he's cold, I'm white and he's black, I'm fire and he's water, or maybe he's fire... anyway, you get what I mean."

"You're Ryan's friend, Seth. As his friend, I don't get why you'd think any reference to prison time would be funny."

Megan watches as Seth's face clouds over. The boy leans back against the sink as he speaks.

"So, Megan, I'm going out on a limb here, but don't you think you might be projecting your own feelings just a little bit? I'm just saying…"

She shrugs, ignoring his question in favor of her own. "Tell me, just how often do your laughs come at Ryan's expense?"

The boy's brows knit together. "You know, you're kinda' acting like he's your kid or something. But the thing is? He's not. You guys left him three plus years ago."

Her eyes close for an instant as she remembers all too well. "You don't know how much I wish we would have been there the day Ryan called. We would have taken him into our home in a nanosecond. Sooner, even."

"But the fact is you weren't there. We were. And now he belongs to us. He's ours."

"Ryan doesn't belong to anyone. He's not property."

"You know what I mean."

Megan tilts her head, appraising the teenager. She is a little afraid she does.

She probes further. "What would your parents say if they heard you joking about Ryan and prison?"

Seth splays his hands. "Nothing. They've heard me plenty of times before, and they know it doesn't mean anything. They'd probably just think someone needs to lighten up."

"I'm sorry to hear that, because I kind of hoped someone would be speaking up for Ryan."

"Saying what, exactly?"

"Saying something like this: I know where Ryan's from, and a lot of what he's lived through and overcome. I've seen him, and kids like him, suffer at the hands of their families and others who put them down for kicks, and I've watched Ryan take the abuse because he didn't understand he deserved better. These kids accept cruelty and insensitivity almost as 'givens', and bear them even as the repeated assaults slowly scar their psyche. This much I'd bet, Seth – using what must be one of the most painful moments of Ryan's life for laughs must feel kinda' like an ice pick jammed into his gut. It isn't something a true friend would do to someone he cares about. It's just not."

"You're saying I'm scarring Ryan's psyche?"

"Why risk it, Seth? If it's just for fun, find something else to joke about. If you really are his friend, find something else."

The boy's head shakes from side to side like he is looking at a crazy woman, but Megan doesn't care.

"_Find something else_."

His head draws back and his mouth scrunches at the corners. "Whatever. Something else," he mutters.

It's not a rousing victory, but it's a concession and she'll take it. She scans his face, surprised to find more questions than umbrage in the dark brown eyes. She nods an approval. "Thank you, Seth."

"You're welcome," he says hesitantly, as though he's not sure it's what he wants to say.

An awkward moment of silence follows before she nods toward the door. "Look, Sam and Ryan must be waiting, so I'm gonna' scoot. We'll have Ryan back by Monday night."

She pulls a handwritten note out of her pocket and slides it across the counter toward Seth. "Give this to your mom and dad. It's got all of our contact details, in case any of you need to speak with Ryan or with us before we get back."

The teenager steps up to the counter and spins the note around, glancing up at her as he finishes.

"Monday night?" he sputters. "You're not coming back on Sunday?"

"Monday night," she repeats, heading out of the kitchen.

"But what about my reindeer?" Seth insists, trailing her down the hall. "They won't just put themselves up, you know. I was kinda' counting on Sunday as our official 'Reindeer Day."

Ryan swings the front door open just in time to hear Seth's last sentence. He holds up one hand, effectively bringing Seth's whine to a halt.

"Your mom says no reindeer until the 24th – the neighbors threatened to start a petition. But don't worry, Seth. Donder and Blitzen will go up, I promise. It's on my schedule. Done deal."

"Vixen and Cupid."

Ryan's head pulls back a little and he grimaces at Seth.

The curly headed boy nods in resignation, and Ryan's face instantly clears. Seth immediately pounces. "It's just that, technically, my reindeers' names are Vixen…"

"Seth," Ryan warns.

"Yeah. Okay. Cool," Seth throws his hands up in surrender. "I get it, dude." He edges closer to Ryan, his voice pitched low. "We'll talk more about their names when you get back. And about moving up the timetable."

Megan intercedes before Ryan growls again. She steps between the two boys, speaking quickly to Seth.

"We'll see you Monday night. Tell your parents we'll call when we get to Berkeley."

She then turns to Ryan, who tosses her a grateful glance. Placing a hand against his back, she steers him to the open door.

"Let's hit the road, Ace. I see Sam has staked his claim to the backseat. He's got some prep work he wants to do, so looks like it's going to be you and me up front."

"Good by me," he says, as they walk out the door together, leaving Seth standing inside in the shadows.

"Phone me if you want to talk," Seth interjects, "or you could text if you want to stay stealth. Keep our com on the QT. Maybe I should work on a triple secret code…"

Ryan pulls the door closed behind him, answering as the gap narrows, "You do that, Seth. We'll talk about it when I get home."

The last thing Megan hears is Seth's muted, "Yeah, a secret code. Cool."

She keeps her voice low as she asks, "If you wanted Seth to come along, you'd tell me, right?

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Right. And if Seth were cooped up inside the car, Sam would escape where? To the trunk?"

Megan snickers. "Maybe. Or to a separate car."

"Seth's a good guy. Honest. He just takes some getting used to."

"Some?"

"Okay, maybe a lot. But in the end, it's worth it. Trust me."

She reaches for his face, her fingers feathering against his cheek.

"Always."

Ryan ducks his head, looking up at her from under blond eyelashes. His wears the tiny half-smile she loves.

Time seems to stretch softly between the present and a multi-textured past. The Chino child's face wavers before her, out of place in the sparkling Newport sun. The image is oddly juxtaposed with the features of this young man who could easily belong in a privileged world. Two very different lives, trying to settle into one.

"So, who's driving?" the teen asks, schooling his voice carefully.

Classic Ryan, she thinks, never asking for what he wants.

But his eyes are still her windows.

Wordlessly, she tosses him the keys.

_...tbc_


End file.
